The Landis Phoenix
by Spikey44
Summary: There is a perfectly good reason I ended up in your bed last night Fran. Balthier told her, and when I find said reason I shall be sure to tell you what it is. A story of misdeeds, ancient relics, sky pirates and calamities of the heart. Balthier&Fran.
1. Chapter 1

**The Landis Phoenix**

_Disclaimer: All known and recognisable characters, places and names are property of Square Enix. All unknown and unrecognisable characters, places and names are mine. _

_A/N: This is a story in two parts. Anyone who has read my other story 'War Privateer' will be familiar with the style. The chapters in italics are written in the past (the year 702 when Balthier is eighteen years old) and the chapters without italics are in the present (year 707 – after the events of Revenant Wings)._

_Certain characters from the War Privateer appear in this story but it is not essential to have read that story to read this one. _

* * *

**Prologue: Sky continent of Dorstonis 707 o.v (Old Valendian)**

The copper tang of cold blood and the faint ghost of river silt hung in the warm comfortable, scent redolent air of the sleeping cabin. Fran wrinkled her nose seeking more favourable scents then the hint of fish guts and water weed that seeped through the air from the cargo hold.

She turned her head to the heated scent of hume sweat and warm, young resilient flesh. The sugary, bittersweet scent of a hume body metabolising alcohol sweetened the air and the heady mix of odours foul and fair made Fran's head reel.

She had not yet and did not now open her eyes. She was fully awake but had no inclination to move from the rumpled nest of sheets on the narrow bunk that really was not sufficiently large enough for two.

Balthier breathed evenly and peaceably underneath her. His face buried in pillows and his arms up and hands gripping the down filled cotton sacks as if he feared they would escape him in his slumber. Fran's cheek, pressed into the slight dip formed between his shoulder blades, had melded itself comfortably to his flesh; her nose was filled with his scent and her hair covered them both like a white and flimsy veil.

With her long legs drawn up at the knees so her feet did not dangle over the edge of the bed Fran contemplated the previous days venture with eyes closed and her ears, laid flat across the back of Balthier's skull as they rose straight up from her head, twitched detecting the faintest of sounds from beyond the Strahl's familiar confines. She paid the sound no heed however as she was comfortable in her half-slumbering recollection.

Fran had been dubious regards the merits of Balthier's latest diversion when he had bruited the suggestion to her. The Bervenia fiasco (as Balthier persisted in referring to their exploits in Lemures) had been resolved some seven weeks before and after much hinting and then more strenuous suggestions Vaan and Penelo had taken themselves off on their own ventures leaving Fran and Balthier to their pleasant and self-sufficient solitude once more.

Except of course, Fran conceded with slight frown over closed eyelids, her ears picking up the steady beat of Balthier's heart, that that solitude had been strained of late; Balthier was hiding something and had been for many weeks. That something, which gave him silent nightmares and encroaching insomnia, threatened the symbiotic harmony between them creating a distance even as, paradoxically and maybe unconsciously on his part, Balthier cleaved to her more closely than he had in some time.

Therefore when Balthier had announced that they should go fishing Fran instantly knew that he was not planning to fish for small fry; Balthier had never shown the slightest affinity for fishing in the past. When he had packed a supply pack full of incendiaries and Volcano hand grenades her vague suspicions had been confirmed.

He was either intending, Fran decided at the time, to wage a one man war on some as yet unidentified foe (which was not as improbably as it might seem; Balthier was perfectly capable of starting a war with his actions) or he was planning to capture the infamous Daedalus Snapper. The reward bill in the tavern they had frequented the day before his announcement had offered fifty thousand Gil for the head and skin but the harvest and sale of the highly sought after scales could fetch considerably more.

'This is no ordinary fish we seek and you are not accustomed to catching even ordinary fish.'

She had pointed out early on the previous morn as Balthier pondered provisions for their 'fishing trip' while Nono waited beside the over-burdened pack that stood head height with the Moogle waiting patiently for his commands.

'Then it is just as well we are not after ordinary fish, or that useless knowledge I conveniently do not possess would impede our expedition, wouldn't it?' he had replied flippantly dancing with words.

Balthier had been flighty and easily distracted (or more so than was his usual inclination) since before they reached the lost floating isles of the Eternal but he had grown considerably more so since their return.

It was no secret that he had not enjoyed their travails throughout Lemures and had done his utmost to melt into the background, even to the extent of forcing Vaan into the vacated limelight of centre stage. The whole affair, coming so swiftly on the heels of their recovery from the Bahamut fall had left Balthier all in a fervour to engage in some activity that did not lead to their inadvertent involvement in Ivalice saving endeavours.

Hunting a twenty foot long, carnivorous fish had probably seemed like a task innocuous enough to fit that bill Fran had surmised as she waited with amused indulgence for Balthier to finish fussing over details – he had always tended towards a strange myopia; his plans ambitious and organised to fine detail that somehow still missed consideration of the more pressing matters – these usually involved planning adequate escape routes once said ambitious and detailed plans had been put into practice.

'I've heard that the Daedalus Snapper is very susceptible to Thundaga, which considering it is a creature of the water has a certain logic to it.'

Balthier had told her cheerfully shouldering the heavy pack onto his back and leading the way from the docked Strahl through the thick woodland of Dorstonis to the lake where their quarry was said to lurk.

'Indeed and what is your plan to apprehend the creature?' she had asked him, though she had suspected she could guess well enough – she had observed the grenades after all.

'Simplicity itself,' Balthier had told her brightly as he knocked low hanging branches out of his way and trampled over thick undergrowth and bright red fungi with a callous disregard for the life of the forest that still made Fran wince.

'We electrify the water of the lake and the creature will either surface wherein we hit it again with spells, or seek refuge under the waves, in which case the grenades should finish the job.'

For a moment Fran had been almost rendered immobile by this 'plan', in so far as she would gift such a premise the virtue of being a plan. Truly Balthier was not himself for even by his standards this was a poorly considered course of action.

Balthier was a child of metal and hume endeavour, a man of science and cause and affect, and Fran knew that like all humes it was not truly cruelty but a profound ignorance that stood at the root of his (and humekinds) destructiveness; too often Humes could not see beyond their own existence to recognise the life all around them. Still as Fran had shaken her head silently she had decided that she would point out his folly to him.

'What of the other life under the lakes surface; would you slaughter all to catch but one creature?' she had called to him, deciding to address the largest flaw with his less than well thought out plan.

Balthier had stopped on the path and turned back to her, 'I hadn't thought of that.'

Fran had quirked an eyebrow, 'I had suspected as much; the lake will teem with life abundant and you would eradicate that life and destroy the lake with this plan.'

'Well,' Balthier had shifted awkwardly and rolled his shoulders to settle the heavy pack on his back a little more comfortably. He had frowned as he reconsidered his plan, 'Well I'm sure we will think of something that does not involve aquatic genocide once we reach the lake.'

Fran had given him at the time a long level look, cocking one hip and folding her arms across her body, 'Indeed?' She had then sighed, 'Your strategies of late have shared but one trait in common, their many inconsistencies.'

For a moment Balthier had looked as if he was considering taking offence (or at least feigning to do so) but then he had decided against such a course of action and instead smiled crookedly.

'The gods love nothing more than a man with a plan, and the thwarting thereof, Fran.' He had told her cheerfully.

He was that day conservatively dressed (by his standards) in travelling trousers of treated brown leather, which fastened at the seam with a cross-hatching cord of tawny string from ankle to above the calf. His leather vest was brown leather also and subtly accented with burnt umber thread that flashed sunset orange as the sun hit it. His white shirt stood out like the glitter of snow, unnatural and incongruous in the thick fall of green around them.

Somehow Balthier always managed to look less like a man out of his element and out of place but instead as if the backdrop was at fault; that constant aura of self-assurance even when he was anything but had always amused Fran.

They had trekked through the dense foliage of the Dorstonis forest in companionable silence after that. Fran's ears had twitched and quivered constantly, alive with the sounds of a forest alive. The call of birds to their nest mates, the scurrying of rodents and small creatures through the thick undergrowth skirting the foot-beaten path they travelled, all shivered and whispered over the deep, subterranean throb of the heart of the forest.

'My ears hear no distant approach of fiend, odd as that be.'

Fran had spoken eventually after many minutes of trying, with futile hope, to discern the particular voice of this wood. To Fran the secret paths of the Green Way had almost been visible, glowing like liquid green firelight before her eyes for scant seconds before dissolving into a confusion of verdant shadow like a mirage of the imagination.

'Ondore,' Balthier had answered her question casually.

He had not sounded out of breath even though they had been walking through awkward terrain for at least an hour and half by that point, but then he was accustomed to much harder travel than this. His shoulders had begun to bow, however, and Fran had heard the hint of discomfort as he struggled with the heavy pack under the dappled sun that blazed through the green leaves of the canopy above.

'He has standing orders to keep these ten square miles of forest clear of fiends.' Balthier had elaborated upon his previous answer.

Fran stopped for just a second. She had thought this land was too well maintained to be free, 'Then we are trespassing upon the private lands of the Marquis of Bhujerba?'

Balthier had merely thrown a quick grin over his shoulder in answer, 'Quite; that is why, fish or no, it would be for the best that we be gone within six hours or so. I believe the Marquis is planning on riding out after luncheon with a party of distinguished guests and, surprisingly despite our own _distinction_, we are not invited.'

Fran had already begun to suspect that Balthier's fervour to catch the Daedalus Snapper had an ulterior motive; she had been pondering why the Marquis Ondore would tolerate such a large and dangerous fiend loose in his lake if he kept the forest clear of other predatory fiends and with Balthier's answer she had realised what game he was planning to avoid confronting whatever it was that left him sleepless through the long nights.

'This party of guests is a hunting party is it not?'

She had asked slowly and Balthier's wicked chuckle floating back to her over the glowing green deceptive stillness of the forest had been all the confirmation she needed.

'No, in fact, it is more of a _fishing_ party.'

Fran had closed her eyes then, understanding Balthier's devious ulterior motive. She had wondered that he, who disdained Mark Hunting as a fool's occupation, would suddenly decide that a mark was worth his time.

'You plan to steal the Marquis' fish?' she had asked him, simply for confirmation.

Ahead of them the path through the dense canopy they had been travelling under opened up onto a vista of gold sunlight alight and glittering over the mirror glass smooth surface of a silver lake. Soft, deep green grass had rustled in the ever-present breeze that caressed the floating isles of Dorstonis and wild flowers in vivid shades of blue and yellow had clustered close to the trunks of weeping willows whose branches trailed the faultless surface of the picturesque lake.

Balthier had stopped before that magnificent view and turned fully to face her. At the time he had graced her with his most rakish smile, 'Well of course Fran; there is no point taking a fish no one wants, is there?'

Some three hours later, when both were bruised and soaked to the bone from their battle with the fearsome Daedalus Snapper, Balthier had surveyed their kill with a troubled expression.

'Hmm,' he had folded his arms across his chest, 'It's possible I had not quite considered all the logistics of this venture before we set out.' He had murmured under his breath but Fran had heard him perfectly.

Hair wet and plastered to her head and ears twitching with the water of the lake that saturated her body Fran had studied him very steadily.

'Know you not how we are to transport our quarry to the Strahl?' she had asked already suspecting the answer. It was the escape plan all over again. He never considered consequences, but Fran had to concede that she would not enjoy his company so much if he knew what he was doing.

Balthier knowing as well as she did that he had not thought this through was caught between laughter and piqued pride and he too had been liberally slimed with water weed and drenched to the bone.

'Really Fran, this is supposed to be a business _partnership_; it is unfair that I must do everything myself.'

He had replied haughtily and Fran had almost laughed. That it was a silent laugh had not mattered; Balthier knew how to listen for it anyway.

The rapping of a fist against the outer hull of the Strahl snapped Fran's eyes open and her mind from reminiscences and her ears quivered, flicking against the crown of Balthier's head. The sound was muffled and swallowed into subliminal vibrations through the metal hull that only Fran's ears could detect. She lifted her head from its pillow of hume flesh and waited for a recitation of the sound.

She did not have to wait long.

The next set of knocks of a fist against the metal was accompanied by the even more distorted and muffled sound of a familiar voice.

'…….hey, Balthier…….Fran……Nono…..anyone?'

Vaan's voice grew louder as Fran's awareness focused on it, her senses primed to interpret, indentify and locate the nature and origins of the sound. She could see in her mind's eye Vaan's heavy, guileless footfalls trampling the grasses around the Strahl as he circled the ship periodically banging on the outer hull in an attempt to attract attention.

Fran could not hear Penelo but she doubted not that the young hume woman would be with Vaan. Eventually the gangly sky pirate neophyte struck a spot on the Strahl's outer hull which was level with the cabin wall and the sound boomed through the metal.

Balthier's eyes popped open, blood shot and unfocused. He lifted his head and raised himself up on his elbows quizzically, 'Ugn, my aching head.' He groaned and dropped his face back down into the pile of pillows.

Fran gracefully rose from the bed (and Balthier's body, which she had been laying on more so than the bunk since he had stumbled into her cabin some time in the middle of the night more asleep than awake and she had taken him into her arms to soothe his dreamlike distress).

Balthier still more asleep than awake turned to watch her, frowning fuzzily. 'Fran?' he narrowed his eyes and his gaze ticked over the features of the small cabin, 'hm, this is not my cabin.'

'No, it is mine.' Fran agreed. On the floor Balthier's fine white shirt lay discarded and Fran pulled it over her own body, poised on her tip toes as she loathed to walk with foot flat to the ground.

Balthier made a mess of trying to sit up in the bunk, his usual grace absent from his movements and rubbed fiercely at his face.

'Why am I in your bunk and in your cabin?' he queried, more to himself than Fran although she would have answered him save that at that moment their unwanted visitor smacked against the outer shell of the Strahl once more.

' Hel-loooooooo? Hellllllllooooooo? BAL-their…..FRAN? Are you in therrrreeeee….?'

'What in blue blazes?' Balthier's head whipped about like a serpent strike to glare daggers at the wall. Had he been able to burn through the steel with his gaze alone Vaan would have been naught but ashes in the face of Balthier's wrath.

Fran's ears picked up the chastisement Vaan received outside for his summoning technique. To her surprise she picked out not just Penelo's light and lilting voice but the gruffer, deeper tones of Basch Fon Ronsenberg, currently living under the guise of his deceased brother Judge Magister Gabranth. She frowned; what business could the false magister have with them?

'What is it? Who is out there with the boy?' Balthier had caught the slight quiver of consternation upon her countenance and correctly identified the reason behind it.

'It is Basch that is now Gabranth.' She murmured softly and Balthier immediately tensed.

'This cannot be good,' he spoke aloud her own thoughts.

Scratching at his hairline Balthier managed to dishevel his sleep mussed hair even more severely as he scowled and once again someone pounded on the hull of the Strahl. This time, to Fran's sensitive hearing, it sounded as though the caller knocked upon the Strahl with metal gauntleted fist.

'Bloody hell,' Balthier growled, fighting with the thin sheets to drop both feet over the side of the bed, 'Where's my gun?' he asked, voice snapping with tension, 'I think it's time that Vaan learned the proper etiquette for calling on associates; primarily that he should not call on _me _without express invitation.'

Fran frowned at him and the look was enough to still his irritable and uncoordinated motions. 'Stay; I will go and see what they want while you make yourself ready for company.'

Fran resolved then that once they had ascertained the nature of their visitors purpose in coming she would impel Balthier to tell her the reason for his strange behaviour of late; it was past time to address the issue.

Fran did not like that the origins of his pre-occupation and inner distress remained unclear to her (she had believed that she knew the workings of his mind as well as she did her own). However the outward manifestation of his distress, of which the symptoms included a greater dependency upon the bottle to help him sleep and a tendency to sleepwalk thereafter and seek comfort in her proximity in a way he never had before, had been growing increasingly prevalent.

'If they want the fish, tell them I'll accept nothing less than one hundred thousand gil for it.'

Balthier called after her as Fran moved towards the entrance hatch of the Strahl. Nono, habitual spanner in hand, was just clambering up from the engine room looking as annoyed as a Moogle could look, as Fran moved to open the hatch.

'Kupo, kupo, what time do they call this, kupo?'

Fran opened the hatch to early morning daylight just as Vaan had moved forward to rap upon the closed hatch door. In the process of opening said door Fran managed to knock the young hume flying backwards with a startled cry onto his rump; she found that she felt little in the way of guilt for this.

'Oooompff.' Vaan looked up, rubbing at his forehead as Penelo tugged on his arm to help him up. Fran ignored the young humes and turned her attention to Basch, who was dressed in full Judge livery, save for the helmet which was tucked under one arm.

'What business do you have with us?' she asked coolly and ignored the fact that both Basch and Vaan seemed momentarily tongue-tied at the sight of Fran wearing nothing more than Balthier's fine white shirt and were apparently rendered mute for more than a handful of seconds. Therefore it was left to Penelo to speak for them.

'Um, we're sorry to bother you Fran,' she said politely even though she too was eyeing the shirt with some curiosity, 'Is, um, is Balthier there because we really need to talk to him pretty urgently.'

'He is making ready.'

She told the young woman in non-committal manner but not unkindly. She could not help but notice the strangely conspiratorial look that passed between Vaan and Penelo for a moment and the sly grin that was trying to break free across Vaan's broad and open features. She wondered what strange and false conclusions they had jumped to based on her simple statement alone.

'What matter of urgency would bring young sky pirates and Judges to our door, I wonder?'

She asked pointedly suspecting that Balthier's mood would blacken considerably when he learned that once again crisis and disaster had found them, the fates seeing fit to embroil them in matters beyond their station.

Basch stepped forward, 'I am come on the charge of Lord Larsa. There is a matter of some delicacy he would discuss with Balthier confidentially. Matters in the capital at present are such that he cannot come in person, so has sent me in his stead.'

Fran quirked an eyebrow, well able to imagine Balthier's indignant and sardonically cutting response to such a speech had he been present, 'Indeed? What business could the Emperor of Archadia have with a sky pirate; do you seek our extradition for trial?'

'Of course not,' Vaan said before Basch could speak. The gangly youth bounded forward to look up at Fran as she stood, poised on her toes, hands braced to hold the edges of the hatch for balance. Fran had the momentarily suspicion from the craning of the youth's neck that he was trying to look up under the hem of the shirt she wore.

'It's about something Balthier might have been involved in years ago. I told Basch Balthier wouldn't have anything to do with it but he said it was really urgent so Penelo and I tracked you down.' Vaan explained cheerfully.

Fran looked over Vaan's head to Basch questioningly and the former knight, recognising that confidentiality was a concept alien to the two Rabanastrans, shook his head ruefully.

'I understand that Balthier was once in the employ of a pirate called Remus Cutter?'

Fran did not allow her internal surprise to show in her outward visage but her attention quickened as she studied the armoured man before her thoughtfully.

'That man is long dead.' Was all she said but it stood as tacit acknowledgement to the fact in any respect.

'Aye, it is not the man himself we require but information on the whereabouts of something he once stole.'

Basch murmured smoothly in his gruff and steady voice but not before Fran saw the gleam of some deep emotion, a flash in his pale blue eyes, at her acknowledgement that the name Remus Cutter was known to she and Balthier both. Under the thick oily metallic scent of his dead brother's armour Fran could intuit nothing of Basch's feelings from his scent.

'What stolen object do you seek and why for come to us now in regards a long past theft?' she inquired coolly.

Her suspicions were mounting however. Remus had been, by all accounts, a vicious and violent man who few mourned. She doubted that Balthier would feel particularly willing to divulge information on the man who had been his mentor in all things pirate – the man whose murder Balthier himself had engineered and enacted.

Basch looked calmly back at her and answered her question, 'The Landis Phoenix; the ancient and most holy relic of my homeland. It was stolen some years past and all sources suggest Balthier is the only man still alive who knows of its whereabouts.'

It was at that moment, with the impeccably bad timing he had perfected into an art form, that Balthier stepped up behind her in the entrance way and all eyes turned to him in question and recrimination, including Fran's.

Balthier, who had managed to make an admirable attempt to look like his usual sober and well-groomed self, looked quizzically from one face to another as he fastened the stiff starched cuffs of his fresh shirt without looking.

'Trouble?' he queried lightly.

Fran shook her head reproachfully, 'For you I think it likely. Hope I do you know nothing of this matter.'

Balthier looked momentarily blank and then slightly annoyed, 'I take it this is not about the fish?'

'What fish?' Vaan intruded, clearly not appreciating the fact that Balthier had ignored all three of their guests with consummate skill.

'This is not about the fish,' Fran agreed.

Balthier frowned and then, because Fran would give him no indication of the trouble he was now in via gesture, word or look he glanced over to Basch impatiently.

'Well; what is this about then?'

Basch spoke up expression grim and unforgiving as stone, 'The Landis Phoenix; five years ago you helped steal the last relic of the ancient crown jewels of Landis from an Imperially occupied property. You stole the greatest treasure of a land that flourished before the founding of Raithwall's Dalmasca; now I have come to take it back.'

For a handful of silent seconds Balthier did not react at all to this most grim and resolute pronouncement. Fran, who knew the patterns of his every frown and could hear the quicksilver thoughts that percolated behind his secretive eyes watched the many silent expressions that danced, hidden, across his face. Blank incomprehension gave way to affront at Basch's tone of address and then pique gave way to sick realisation.

Fran closed her eyes despairingly as Balthier spat out a string of vociferous curses and profanity into the early sunlit morning to the shock, amusement and consternation of their guests.

Trouble, their old travelling companion, had indeed found them once again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One: 702 o.v (Old Valendian) Landia former capital of the (former) republic of Landis**

_There were many ways in which the situation Balthier currently found himself in could be described as 'bad'. In fact one could substitute in any number of adjectives of successive gravity to describe this situation; calamitous, disastrous, catastrophic, devastating to name but a few. _

_All in all it would be imminently preferable to him if the house he was currently occupant of was not, at this present moment, on fire; that would help the situation no end. Alas no sudden deluge of precipitation responded to his desire and Balthier, inching his way across the varnished wood floorboards of the manse drawing room on his belly, found himself fighting a losing battle with his lungs and suffocation. _

_Whoever was responsible for sending a flaming bale of hay catapulting through the large drawing room windows was going to be on the receiving end of some choice words from him – assuming he found said culprit and did not burn to death inside this decadent deathtrap._

_It had been nothing short of stunning how swiftly the flames had eaten up the silk draperies at the shattered window and spread across brocade upholstery and fur rugs. The fire had only gained real strength however when it reached the Archadian Prelate's wet bar and the decades old decantered wines and distilled spirits stored therein. _

_The spray of exploding glass and combustible alcohol that rocketed into the air in the resultant explosion would have been fascinating to watch if he hadn't been trapped inside the room at the time. When the crystal lamp chandelier had fallen from the ceiling (now also on fire) he had known himself to be in very severe difficulty. _

_Balthier finally managed, after interminable moments of intense prickling heat, smoke blindness and increasingly desperation, to claw his way through the doorway of the blazing drawing room and into the hallway where he promptly ended up rolling head over heels down the stairs. _

_The ugly jade, pearl, granite and sterling steel statuette clasped in his right fist shot out of his grip and bounced across the floor as his chin smacked into the thick carpeting and the rest of his body came tumbling after (he avoided snapping his neck via the grace of serendipity alone). _

_In Balthier's balanced and reasonable opinion the entire heist from conception to practice had been a very, very bad idea. For one thing why was it that a nation state that had been a republic for the last century continued to treasure its former crown jewels (had it been him in charge of the revolution he would have melted the damn things down and sold them to the highest bidder post haste). _

_Likewise he did not understand why the Empire, upon invading and vanquishing Landis, had kept said crown jewels carefully stored in a nigh impregnable subterranean vault for the last half a dozen years, or why the Prelate of the Landis territory and trusted representative of Archadia had chosen to steal said profoundly ugly statuette from the vault to use as a centrepiece on his dinner table. _

_All of this paled into insignificance however in relation to the worst of it all; that being that bloody Remus had decided that not only did he want the Landis Phoenix (fabled centrepiece of the crown jewels) for his own but that Balthier must all but single-handedly acquire said object of dubious merit for him. _

_Dragging himself upright slowly and clasping hold of the Landis Phoenix once more Balthier coughed wretchedly and lurched towards the front doors of the house only to be tackled from behind as he passed a downstairs parlour door and subsequently pummelled into the carpeting once more._

_At eighteen years and some four and half months old Balthier had not quite finished his growing. He was taller than most men at six feet, and probably would grow no taller, but his body still retained the reedy flexibility of a boy (being regularly starved by a vindictive pirate master was not helping him gain muscle density either). Fortunately, although severely winded by the unexpected attack, Balthier's flexibility allowed him to twist about, free one arm, and smash the Landis Phoenix into the side of his attacker's head. _

_Kicking upwards as the man slumped sideways with comical slowness, a large cavity blossoming blood from the side of his head, Balthier surged to his feet. Looking from the insensate brute whose blood was flowing freely and seeping into the carpeting he then glanced at the ugly statuette in the shape of some fantastical bird form hunched, wings unfurled, atop a rocking outcropping, with something approaching appreciation. The thing might be damned ugly but it made a handy blunt edged weapon. _

_Of course with the top floor of the house ablaze and the flames beginning to drip down the runner on the stairway it was only to be expected that more mercenary miscreants should come pouring out of the veritable woodwork intent, not on escaping the burning house as any sane person would, but instead on rending Balthier limb from limb._

'Oh for the gods own sake,'_ he snarled as a particularly stupid muscle bound cretin barrelled straight toward him. _

_The tattoos emblazoned across the man's muscle bungling forearms proclaiming the idiot to be both mercenary and sailor – both creeds Balthier had little time for on the best of occasions, which this most certainly was not._

_Balthier side-stepped neatly and the man staggered past him, _'The damned house is on fire and you're attacking me?'_ he demanded in exasperation -sometimes the staggering stupidity of his fellow man appalled him, truly it did. _

_To illustrate just how foolish this man's choice was, he slammed the base of the Landis Phoenix into the back of the huge, lumbering man's skull. The thin dome of bone offered no resistance and Balthier was a little shocked at how easily the man's head shattered. _

_For a moment Balthier just stared at the man whose blood was leaving a rather unsightly stain cross the carpeting. Although he had committed, or assisted in the commission of, so many misdemeanours and more serious crimes in the almost precisely two years since his escape from Archades that he had stopped counting, he had yet to kill a man (or woman – for that matter) and somewhat jealously held on to that moral high-ground while he still had it. _

_Still he had no time to even check the man's pulse before yet more muscular morons without the embryonic wit to escape a burning house, rushed him. This time they came two at a time and Balthier wondered precisely what the Prelate had been paying his hired muscle that they persisted in trying to guard his estate even as it was reduced to cinders all about them. _

_Of course such idly musings would have to wait as he was slammed into the wall by the two men and half throttled by a man whose hand was almost large enough to palm Balthier's head in one. Balthier dropped the Landis Phoenix and instinctively raised his hands to claw at the hand of the shaved Behemoth who was doing an admirable job of strangling him. _

_The enormous brute's friend (who was scrawny and small with sharp eyes too close together in his vaguely rodent like face) reached down to swoop up the statuette. Seeing black and white spots dancing before his eyes, his tongue feeling swollen and suddenly too large for his mouth as his throat slowly caving in under the pressure, Balthier was nevertheless not about to let his loot be swiped right under his nose. _

_He kicked the rat-like man in the face as he swooped down towards the statuette and the man yelped and went backwards arse about face. The Landis Phoenix bounced across the carpeting coming to a stop by the leg of an antique end table. With renewed vigour Balthier reached up with weakening grip and poked the man strangling him straight in his tiny, beady eyes with two pointed fingers. _

_Flesh and viscera and something round and uncomfortably solid gave way as he drove his fingers into the depths of the man's eye sockets. He withdrew, revolted, as the man released him reeling back with a uproarious bellow. _

_Dropping to his feet Balthier pushed past the dizziness and pain resulting from his near strangulation and punched the monstrous man in the throat as he gibbered and clutched at his face. Then, as the man doubled up in agony, Balthier brought his twinned fists down onto the back of the man's neck, simultaneously bringing his knee up to hook the man in the stomach. _

_Balthier, it must be pointed out, might be resistant to actually killing his fellow man but he had no qualms whatsoever when it came to maiming his fellow man for life. _

_Staggering drunkenly back into the entranceway he retrieved the Landis Phoenix from the foot of the end table. Coughing roughly, Balthier surveyed the assorted sprawled bodies as the fire ignited the stairs and began to run down the steps to the hallway._

_He thought about the logistics of dragging these men out of the house before the fire engulfed them all and conceded that they were long odds indeed, especially as these men had tried to kill him. _

_Something upstairs, that sounded suspicious like a support beam for the roof, collapsed in a roar of flame and broken timber and the entire house shuddered like a man in his death throes; even downstairs, below the fire, Balthier could feel the monstrous heat. It was past time to take his leave of this nonsense. _

_Jumping over the body of the brute he'd brained with the statuette (whom he noted to his relief was still breathing despite the large divot in the back of his head) Balthier lunged for the door, toting his stolen (and surprisingly useful) booty in one bloody hand. He wrenched open the door to the Prelate's manse onto what he hoped was the relative safety (or at least anonymity) of the night. _

'Oh, bloody hell; out of the fire and into the inferno.'_ Balthier groaned in abject annoyance. _

_The riot, which he had helped instigate in a local tavern as distraction for his daring infiltration of the Prelate's house, had been no more than a lively skirmish involving angry and repressed Landissians riled up on rotgut moonshine and a gaggle of mounted Archadian cavalry, but had now progressed into a full scale uprising. _

_The prelate's abode was not the only residence aflame either. Balthier, suffering mild smoke inhalation and the weakness that came after sudden surges in adrenalin, staggered back against the outer wall of the Prelate's house and closed his eyes._

_All he'd wanted to do was cause a little distraction that would distract the local (imported from Archadia) constabulary away from their surveillance of the Prelate's manse long enough for him to slip in with practiced skill and make off with the bounty. It was bloody typical of his jaded luck that he seemed to have instigated a city wide rebellion instead. _

……_and oh look, here came the angry mob, with torches raised to the night, marching towards the Imperial Prelate's manse with vengeance aforethought and violent intent. _

_Rather swiftly Balthier considered his options; he did not have that many. Firstly he could run back in the house and die of smoke suffocation long before the mob arrived. Secondly he could attempt to slip by said mob with his loot – a single unarmed man, walking in the wrong direction straight into a murderous mob would not last much longer than he would in the fire. Finally he could run in the opposite direction as fast as his legs could carry him all the while hoping for a miracle._

_With a tremendous crack reminiscent of the snapping of a mythical giant's spine, the roof of the Prelate's house collapsed into the fire and the flames, golden and beautiful in their greedy advance, lapped at the velvet dark sky. Burning flakes of debris, which stung like the bites of insects against his skin, rained down upon Balthier. _

_Well, this was it then, he thought distractedly and glanced almost absently down on the Landis Phoenix clasped in his right fist by dint of the illuminations of the advancing mob's torches and the house fire. _

_For just a moment it seemed to him that the statuette had changed shape…….he was sure the bird's wings, which were now neatly furled along its back, had previously been spread wide and the downward turn of the bird's (which was probably meant to be a Phoenix- not that he had ever seen one in his life) beak had been previously raised proudly, open on a scream of triumph. But that must be a trick of memory or firelight, for inanimate objects, by their very nature, stayed inanimate and rigid in their form. _

_The pounding feet and marginally ridiculous shouts and chanteys of the enraged (and inebriated) mob drew louder, advancing like a tidal wave and trampling everything underfoot, and Balthier decided that it was time to act. He chose option three, the only viable option that might, just possibly, result in him not dying a horrible and protracted (not to mention pointless) death. _

_Balthier, sky pirate in training, thief in the night and expert instigator of full scale public uprisings, turned tail and ran as fast as the wind with the baying mob at his heels, the Prelate's house blazing in the distance, and the most revered and ancient relic of Landis, the mystical Landis Phoenix, tightly grasped in his fist._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two: 707; The Strahl's Interior**

Balthier had to give himself a sharp warning about public appearance to stop himself slouching forward in his seat and resting his elbows on the console of the Strahl. His head was filled with the fragments of damned peculiar dreams he could not quite remember and throbbed incessantly; trying to think coherently was akin to attempting to swim through a river of treacle. It was just bloody typical that on the rare occasion he decided to drink to excess he should wake up to find himself with far more problems than a mere hang-over.

'The Landis Phoenix, Balthier.'

Basch - Gabranth - or whomsoever the man was pretending to be at the present time, had eased himself awkwardly into one of the passenger seats in the Strahl's main cabin. His inherited armour squeaked and squealed uncomfortably and had the noise not grated on his fragile nerves Balthier might have found the whole endeavour rather amusing.

'Yes?'

Balthier tried to make himself look politely engaging and vaguely interested. Penelo and Vaan had taken seats behind and opposite Basch and were watching with matching expressions of vacuous expectation that never failed to irritate him. Fran sat in her usual co-pilot seat silently and Balthier worked on ignoring her as he could not quite bring himself to meet her eyes.

It would not be the first time he had woken up in bed with a woman with no clear recollection of how he arrived there and had it been the first time he had done so with _Fran, _of all people, he might have simply laughed the whole debacle off with characteristic suave humour – the fact that it was the second time (and more curiously that Fran had not castrated him for the imposition) left him feeling deeply uncomfortable and nervous as a green boy around his sweetheart.

Basch –Gabranth - or the irritating and unwelcome metal clad monstrosity (as Balthier dubbed him privately) forced him back to the here and now via the dull monotony of his thinly veiled demands.

(The man was much more agreeable as an emaciated alleged traitor in rags – that was for damn sure.)

'Where is it? Larsa has no interest in prosecuting you for the theft but it is imperative that we have it back without delay.'

For a long second Balthier simply stared at the man and ended up speaking before his drink addled brain fully warmed up. 'Where is what?'

Like a man with a dirty secret Balthier's scattered wits skittered back to the night before and more pressingly the morning _after_ the night before. He had no rational, sensible or face-saving reason for why he'd crawled into Fran's (partner inviolate – untouchable Fran) bed in befuddled and inebriated state like a snivelling child last night -or that other time three nights before.

If he really was going to mount a full assault on the untouchable solitude of his beloved (but platonic) partner he should at the very least have been cognizant of doing so. That he evidently had not been was a source of great grievance to him.

Balthier could not explain to himself, let alone Fran, why he kept doing this and was decidedly mortified by the physical dependency on Fran that he seemed to have developed all of sudden, especially as he had been making great strides in weaning himself off of the long held emotional dependency he had developed regards his partner.

Basch's voice grated through his befuddlement but was easily ignored, 'The Landis Phoenix, man. Are you ill, Balthier, you look as though you have misplaced your wits completely.' Basch added somewhat irked. 'All I ask is that you tell me where the Landis Phoenix is.'

Some part of Balthier's consciousness that had crawled around the persistent pounding of his tired brain and the creeping unease that gnawed at him regarding Fran had still managed, in slow and laborious fashion, to filter and pay nominal attention to Basch's words. He couldn't pretend to be interested but he did have the sense to realise that nothing short of pulling a gun would get rid of his unwanted guests – and one did not want to be pulling guns on Judge Magisters (even impostors to the name) unless one was willing to go through with the threat. Thus with this in mind he roused himself to answer Basch finally.

'Why?' he asked vaguely although he was not sure if this was in response to Basch's faintly remembered question or his own internal quandary.

Basch looked unhappy about the question. He shifted in the seat and his left shoulder guard rode up and squeaked with a noise alike to fingernails over a chalkboard. Balthier narrowed his eyes; if the man stained his upholstery he was bloody well paying for the cleaning bill.

'The item must be returned to its rightful owner; you know that Larsa is negotiating for Landis to be ceded from the Empire and restored to its former autonomy. The return of the relics of Landis is a part of that process.'

Basch's assumption that Balthier was quite so savvy to Archadian politics (or that he cared a fig for Archadian foreign policy at all) was quite touching - and quite false. After all Balthier couldn't even accurately dictate his own actions of a night and thus he was quite beyond keeping tags on the political machinations of pre-pubescent emperors. Of course _Basch _did not need to know that.

'Hmm,' Balthier tapped his fingers across the console and smiled faintly almost tasting Basch's words on the tip of his intellect; discerning quite a bit from that stiff, awkward smattering of sentences.

A practiced liar could scent a lie a mile off and Basch was a very poor liar, 'I think there is something you don't want to tell me, your honour.' Balthier purred. If he could just keep his wits about him a little longer he might come out of this encounter unscathed both figuratively and literally.

(It had not escaped his attention that Basch had come to visit fully armed – considering they had saved all Ivalice together twice Balthier was of half a mind to be insulted by this implicit implication of a lack of trust on the false Magister's part).

Basch frowned in response to Balthier's statement looking uncomfortable, and once again the scraping of metal plates against chainmail and upholstery punctuated that unease. Balthier pressed the pads of his fingers to his temples and thought about telling the man to bloody well sit still, but refrained for the time being.

'I have told you all that I am permitted to say and perhaps more than a thief has right to expect.' Basch finally replied. Balthier, perhaps unwisely, laughed at that bold and less than overtly friendly evasion.

While as he and Basch Fon Ronsenberg could not be described as 'friends' (Balthier did not demean himself with those unreliable accountrements) there was no particular ill-will between the two either. Basch's words were a transparent attempt to distract him from a line of questioning the false Magister and his precocious thirteen year old master obviously did not want Balthier to pursue. Miserable with the effects, both physical and interpersonal, of too much drink Balthier decided to be magnanimous and inclined his head in acceptance of this refusal to divulge further information on Basch's part and, with the benign good grace of one granting a boon, decided to stop beating around the proverbial bush and get to the point; who knew perhaps being direct would get his unwelcome guests to leave all the sooner?

'I did steal the Landis Phoenix,' Balthier said disinterestedly, 'Remus more or less demanded I do so.' which was no less than the truth. He shrugged watching Basch closely through tired bloodshot eyes, 'I have no idea where the thing went after that. He may well have sold it on.'

There was a fragile silence that lasted a handful of seconds as Basch looked back at him levelly, 'And I am expected to believe that? You would steal something and then merely hand it over to another to make his own profit from your enterprise?'

Balthier smiled blandly, 'Yes, actually I do expect you to believe that as I am being quite profoundly truthful. Remus was my captain. I was, at best, his sometime apprentice but never was I in his confidence.'

_Primarily as we both knew I had been placed with him as a spy by the Pirate King Nylous and at the time I was plotting the best way to kill him, _a little voice inside Balthier's head added snidely. Why was it that whenever he attempted to deal honestly and without artifice with people it was always the case that they refused to believe him and yet even his most overblown deceptions were taken as truth inviolate without a quiver of incredulity from his audience?

(Was it possible to become out of practice at telling the truth convincingly?)

'Apprentice?' Basch murmured dryly with something hard gleaming wetly in his cold, washed out blue eyes, 'Is it pirate custom to murder one's mentor?'

Balthier, who had been expecting this particular verbal stiletto at some point in proceedings did not twitch a hair, or did Fran who had settled neatly into the chair, sitting sideways so she could watch him calmly and completely with passive, guarded expression.

'Murder?' Penelo looked shocked and Vaan was frowning worriedly. Balthier glanced at them briefly before addressing Basch smoothly.

'Yes actually,' he purred and then cast a quelling glance Vaan's way. 'Don't get any ideas.' he added dryly though he thought it highly improbable that Vaan (who he had never acknowledged as his apprentice anyway) would attempt to bump him off. In fact his pride was offended by the mere suggestion that Vaan could ever kill him.

Basch shook his head, 'You admit to murder so simply; you are bold.'

Balthier smirked and hiked up his brows, sharing a quick complicit look with Fran before he remembered he was trying to avoid looking at his partner.

'Admit to murder? Of course not. I merely accepted that general practice among sky and sea pirates acknowledged the killing of ones mentor as an acceptable right of passage into piratehood at the time of my own apprenticeship.' His tone was so bland it could be spread on toast or crumpets at high tea.

'I never admit anything if I can avoid it, and you need further study in Judicial Practice, your honour, if you cannot recognise an accession to a point of discussion from an admission of guilt.' He added impishly.

Basch smiled faintly, his eyes warming, 'And you are dancing with words, a sure sign you are guilty as charged.' He shook his head, 'I did not come here to interrogate you or accuse you of crimes well in the past. I simply need to know what you know of the Phoenix and its last whereabouts.'

This was a subtly different question and one that would be harder to handle in mostly honest fashion than the last; not least because he had no intention of being completely honest without knowing more about why Basch wanted the Phoenix in the first place. Balthier cocked his head to the side and studied Basch thoughtfully.

'I know that the damned thing was no ordinary ornament.' He conceded after a moment and saw the sharp gleam in Basch's eyes, 'The statuette would change form from moment to moment. I was glad to be shot of it.'

Basch sat back against the upholstery of his chair with a sharp squeak of ill-oiled armour plate and Balthier gritted his teeth against the noise. He looked disconcerted, 'Aye; tis the magick of the relic. The Phoenix showed herself to you?'

Balthier steeled his posture to absolute stillness and maintained his blandly helpful mien with the benefit of long practice but he knew, from the slightest twitch of Fran's ear he caught in his periphery vision that she had caught either a change in his scent or some other indicator of his sudden unease. Fran would not betray him but he would have to tread carefully here.

'I am sure I have no idea as to what you refer.'

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could snatch them back. His old refrain was too well known and he saw both Penelo and Vaan tense in realisation; the jig was up. Damn his hang-over and his jaded luck: why was life always so bloody complicated?

Basch caught the reactions of the two youths (perhaps – Balthier considered for the first time – it was for that very reason the Magister had brought the Rabanastrans with him; to catch Balthier out in a lie that the Magister would not detect?) the false Magister in dead man's shoes smiled slightly and on any other man it would have appeared smug or self-satisfied but such a paragon of characterless virtue as Basch did not have any such self-serving expression.

'Ah,' he said meditatively, 'Our intelligence said that chance was high that you knew more of the Phoenix than merely its black market value.'

'One wonders why you bothered to ask any questions then,' Balthier did not like being caught out in lies, or defeated in verbal one-up-manship, 'your _intelligence _is so astute, after all.'

'The Landis Phoenix was once the protector of our land; ancient myth says that she died in flame and the ashes of our great benevolent guardian were enshrined ever more inside the statuette. It was said that the spirit of the Phoenix would show herself only to those who were worthy.'

Balthier, who knew only too well the myth of the Landis Phoenix, frowned and snapped, 'Yes, anyone can hear any amount of utter bollocks if one listens long enough.'

Basch was not the only one in the cabin surprised by Balthier's abrupt loss of patience (and manners). Fran quirked one eyebrow in dry inquiry, Vaan gave him that aggravating look equal parts stupid ignorance and shrewd consideration and Penelo had to bite down on the knuckle of one finger so as to choke off a giggle. The Magister's expression shifted almost imperceptibly from benign stoicism to stoic suspicion.

Balthier rose from his seat; there was nothing for it. The situation was beyond salvage and he simply was not in any condition right now (or ever) to deal with any of this nonsense.

'I have answered your questions, your honour, now if you don't mind I have a twenty foot long fish to gut, clean, package and sell before it rots. Fran will show you all out.'

Without looking at any of his unwelcome visitors (or Fran, whose gaze, cool and curious, bored into his shoulder blades) he swept down the aisle between the passengers seats in the general direction of either the cargo hold, his cabin, or a convenient dark hole he could crawl into and die.

He ended up in his own cabin and slammed the door with a resounding clunk and ended up almost going over backwards as his foot rolled under an empty liquor bottle some inconsiderate sod (namely Balthier himself) had left lying on the floor.

'Buggery hell.'

Kicking a litter of detritus out of his way and deliberately not considering the root causes for his sudden and uncharacteristic swerve towards dissolute and slovenly behaviours, Balthier dropped heavily down onto his knees and opened the heavy cedar chest (pad-locked and bolted down to the cabin floor) that sat at the foot of his narrow bunk.

Fumbling the lock open and grasping the edge of the chest lid with fingers made clumsy with haste Balthier levered open the chest and rooted about inside. Eventually, burrowing his way through various secret mementos and curios he would deny possessing at gun point should the contents of this chest was ever to be revealed publicly, Balthier's questing fingers found what he was looking for.

The heavy and irregular object clunked against the side of the chest as he dragged it up from the depths but eventually the furled avian statuette of semi-precious stone, metal, granite and general ugliness once more saw the light of day (or the artificial illumination of the crystal wall sconce on his cabin wall).

Balthier stared at the Landis Phoenix, an object of less than happy association to him, that he had not seen in five years. A number of questions crowded to the forefront of his mind. Primary among them was the highly pertinent: 'what the bloody blue blazes is this thing doing in my chest?' and chasing close on the heels of this pivotal question was the equally pertinent: 'How the bloody hell did I know that it was in my sodding chest to begin with; did I even know? I didn't put it there – did I?'

Faced with such an unanswerable series of questions Balthier had a number of options. He could march right back out of his cabin, hunt down Basch and hand the damn thing over to the Magister therefore saving himself from a developing situation that was undoubtedly going to end up an unmitigated disaster of epic proportions. He could go and fetch Fran and fall upon her mercy to help him solve the mystery or he could push the damn thing back down into the bottom of the chest, close and lock the lid and ignore the whole problem.

Really there was no contest; the cedar lid closed with a rather pointed thump and for extra measure Balthier pulled the comforter off the end of his bunk and folded it over the top of the chest. Once said tasks were completed he sighed with a certain satisfaction; problem solved.

Rising to his feet once more, with the distant sounds of Vaan's whining as Fran ejected the trio of unwelcome visitors in his ears, Balthier looked around the cabin with fastidious distaste. The place was a mess and the scent, acrid and cloying sweet, of old wine and spirits hung heavy on the stale air inside.

Rubbing a hand over his face Balthier considered all the things he needed to do. Firstly he needed to take himself in hand and get his act together; he was failing in the performance of the leading man. He needed to cobble together a reasonable excuse for his recent behaviour for Fran (who would expect an explanation as he well knew) and he needed……he needed to…..

Mid-thought Balthier's gaze drifted traitorously towards the cedar chest and the hidden inexplicable contents therein that he was supposed to be ignoring the existence of. Something nudged at his hindbrain, a memory that was not a memory. He thought for a moment that he could taste the sweetness of an autumnal gale, laden with bonfires and the crisp brilliance of encroaching winter on his tongue. As his eyes fluttered closed he thought he could feel the tendrils of a summer breeze stroking over his scalp; a warm almost sensual caress.

Inside the cedar chest something heavy and made of stone and metal clunked against the wood. Balthier's eyes snapped open as the sound jerked him harshly back from mild hallucination to instant awareness.

He stared at the cedar chest from which a steady clunking still emitted. It sounded like there was something alive moving around in there. The blanket, which he had folded over the top of the chest, fell onto the floor with the force of the vibrations rattling the chest. For a handful of seconds Balthier watched, holding his breath unconsciously, as the object (that would remain nameless) continued to clunk about inside rattling the wooden walls of the box.

Finally Balthier galvanised himself into action. He spun on his heels and turned to wrench open the door to his cabin.

'Bugger this for a game of cards; I need a drink.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Three: 702 O.V. The Engine Room of the Antarii: flagship of the sky pirate Remus Cutter**

'Left interface conduit: one blown valve, tearing of the auxiliary coupling feed to the vertical manifold.' _With his head and most of his upper body shoved into the tiny space between various whirring, fizzing, exhaust wheezing components of the in-flight airship Balthier deftly continued his stock taking of faults to Tarry the Moogle chief engineer who waited beside Balthier's dangling legs with clipboard and specially made for Moogle paws quill pen at the ready. _

'Kupo-po.' _Tarry almost groaned his fast mind already tallying up the cost of these most recent repairs._

'Right interface,' _Balthier began using the specially designed non-conductive tools to spread apart the thicket of wires and cables so he could dig about in the innards of the mechanism. It was at that moment that someone thundered down the small flight of stairs into the engine room making enough noise for at least ten men._

'Balthier! Where are you, you wily bastard?'

_Balthier, considered startled by the newcomers loud, raucous and obscenely cheerful voice, smacked the top of his head on the roof of the metallic alcove he was squeezed into, dropped his tools and narrowly avoided electrocuting himself. Closing his eyes on a desperate plea for patience he wriggled out of the shaft and dropped to his feet on the engine room floor, head still smarting from the almighty whack he had given himself. _

'Ha, I should have known you'd be up to your elbows in engine grease and mechanisms.' _The gregarious young man whose mane of red hair hung in a glossy sheet over his bright green eyes clapped Balthier on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him a little. _'We need to get you a woman, Balthier, all this tinkering with metal do-dads is not good for a man,' _the inanely cheerful young man continued as Balthier turned to favour him with a frown._

'Hello Aeneas,' _Balthier said levelly, _'What do you want and make it quick for this bloody ship might very well explode at any given moment.'

_Aeneas grinned easily._ 'Well all the more reason to get you away from the engine room then.'

_Approximately the same age as Balthier himself and a former native of Archades just as Balthier was the only other apprentice of the infamous Remus Cutter, Aeneas was as different in temperament, outlook, mannerism and interests from Balthier as it was possible to be; however despite his best efforts to avoid it Balthier and Aeneas had become something akin to friends. Of course this did not mean Balthier much appreciated the interruption or that he wasn't growing annoyed in the face of Aeneas' constant grin. The man was always smiling; that just didn't seem natural to Balthier. _

_Affected by the level stare Balthier continued to give him Aeneas let the charming, engaging smile (that had the women flocking to him in droves) slip from his face and sighed. _'Thought you should know, Remus is docking in Cahahouli Bay; he's meeting up with Ruthy and your presence has been commanded.'

_Balthier couldn't quite prevent the momentary grimace that touched his features at the mention of Ruthy's name. Remus had been pleased with his swift work acquiring the Landis Phoenix a few days ago and had been rather amused by the riot that Balthier had not entirely intentionally orchestrated to gain access to the item. Making Remus happy was a necessary evil as far as Balthier was concerned; it furthered his long and short term ends to do so. _

_Ruthy was another matter entirely. Remus' sometime paramour Ruthy was a sea pirate who commanded a fleet of at least five pirate vessels and was renowned along all known longitudes and latitudes as a woman of unrivalled capriciousness, brutality and a penchant for sadism that left Balthier cold. She also (terrifyingly) had made it clear to Balthier that she found him physically attractive and would like to become better acquainted with him and certain parts of his anatomy. What made this fact truly monstrous to Balthier was the sneaking suspicion that Ruthy would not care if said parts of his anatomy were still attached to the rest of him at the time. _

_Aeneas had been watching him closely and nodded in sympathy, once again he slapped a companionable hand over his shoulder - much to Balthier's increasing annoyance, _'Yes, a virgin in Ruthy's tender care. I can't think of anything more frightening.' _Aeneas' grin popped back into existence, _'Except perhaps that my dearest friend, despite plenty of occasions to correct the problem, is still a lily white virgin.'

_Balthier fastidiously swept his 'friend's' hand from his shoulder and turned towards the stairs leading up from the engine room that was, for all intents and purposes, his home._

'Yes, thank you. Your concern for my carnal endeavours is touching.' _Balthier stated leadenly. This was not a matter of conversation he enjoyed visiting but it appeared to be an unhealthy obsession with Aeneas. _

_Balthier had been raised in a society that had a very disjointed view of the more sensual side of existence. The Archadian Gentry were raised to believe procreation equalled continued existence and prestige, and sons (the more the better) were considered the tools of greater wealth whereas daughters were dowry bringers. Sex for the sake of sex was something that was not discussed, considered polite, or acknowledged as a worthwhile recreation in its own right. Clearly Aeneas, the wayward son of a pair of affluent Ardents in Tsenoble, had failed to learn the decent level of Archadian repression. _

_Therefore already in a less than chirpy mood Balthier ascended the steps to the main area of the Antarii and moved down the shiny blue painted and gilt lined corridor towards the next ascending ladder with Aeneas prattling on at his heels. _

'Shore leave,' _Aeneas was saying as they passed by the various cargo holds towards the ladder that lead to the top of the large airship where the cockpit was situated, _'Remus is well pleased with you at the moment, which makes a nice change, you could capitalise on that when we dock in Cahahouli Bay. I know a place we can go. The women of the western isles are something else my friend.'

_Balthier paused halfway up the ladder that led to the cockpit and looked back down at the leering Aeneas, _'Can you please shut up?'

_Aeneas laughed, _'Gods no,' _he clambered up the ladder easily after Balthier and they both headed towards the closed circular bulkhead door that led to the cockpit, _'I take it as my divine right that I can make the imperturbable 'clever Archadian bastard' go red in the ears with embarrassment. I intend to abuse that gift for as long as I can.'

'Joy is me,' _Balthier muttered wondering what he had done to deserve such attentions. _

_Balthier did not want to make friends; he did not require the companionships of his peers. He did not overly enjoy the company of others and especially amid this group of sky pirates who he had every reason to loathe, and was in fact, supposed to be actively betraying in a covert manner with every breath. He certainly hadn't done anything to encourage a bond between himself and Aeneas but even such vague similarities as a shared nationality, age, and gender were enough to form an unlikely friendship that Balthier, despite previously stated objections to the notion of friendship, was loathe to fully sever. _

_No one enjoyed being lonely, even those, like Balthier, who were used to being in their own company. Sometimes, so many miles and so many years away from the home he had once loved and everything he had ever known as a boy, Balthier could not deny his own homesickness. There were even times, after Remus had taken it into his head to punish him for some real or imagined sleight for instance and he was all alone metaphorically licking his wounds under the thunderous hum of the Antarii's engines, that Balthier even found himself missing his father. _

_Such introspection was swiftly shelved however as the large studded metal bulkhead door slid open and they were granted access to the cockpit. Not for the first time Balthier reflected, as the door opened to reveal the spacious wonders of the cockpit, that the Antarii was a gorgeous ship. _

_A little too large a vessel for Balthier's preferences but a fine and stately craft all the same, Remus flagship was a galleon airship, both ornate and surprisingly powerful. The Antarii's walls and surfaces were covered in silver gilt and the trappings of wealth and excess, but despite her captain's complete lack of good taste, the decorations that filled the exterior and interior of the Antarii were not over done. Silver and midnight blue velvet upholstery and polished chrome created a familiar and ornate backdrop wherever one walked through the Antarii. _

_It was the height of irony and a terrific shame therefore, in Balthier's opinion, that the Antarii was possessed by an uncouth, savage brute of a man. Said savage brute was standing at the railing on the top tier of the split level cockpit staring out of the huge viewing window that dominated the area before the pilots console; clearly he had delegated piloting duties to one of his many subordinates today. Remus turned around as the hydraulic cockpit door slid closed behind Balthier and Aeneas. _

'There yer are yer bluidy clever bastard.'

_Remus greeted him with his usual salutation and fixed Balthier with an aggressive one eyed glare. The man's unkempt mane of dark hair tangled about his massive shoulders and his sallow broad featured face was almost swallowed by a crawling forest of prickly stubble. His one remaining eye had a yellowish tint and Balthier always likened Remus' appearance to that of Behemoth that had been barbered and put in ill-fitting men's clothing. _

'Yes, here I am.'

_Considering all the many vile insults that had been bandied his way since he had begun his indentured servitude with Remus Balthier had decided that 'clever bastard' or the equally popular 'Archadian bastard' were infinitely preferable and did not raise objection to there general prevalence when Remus or his adherents addressed him. _

_Remus continued to watch him much in the way a Silver Lobo studied a potential meal, looking for weaknesses to exploit. _'When we reach Cahahouli Bay I got a buyer lined up fer t'Phoenix.'

_Balthier kept a open and bland expression on his face but he did wonder why Remus was deigning to tell him this at all. Remus distrusted him with a level of persistence and intensity that had only increased over the many months Balthier had served under him and usually Balthier was the last to know anything about anything. _

_(Or at least that was the intention – thankfully Balthier did not rely on being told anything as a means of garnering information; he was a spy after all and spies by their nature tended to know what they were not supposed to know.)_

'Indeed?' _He inquired mildly when it became apparent that Remus was waiting for him to respond in some way before he would continue. _

_Remus' large, irregular yellow teeth flashed as he curled his top lip in contempt for Balthier's polite inquiry. It was a popular pastime among Remus and his pirate cronies to mock Balthier's manner of speech and vocabulary at any given occasion. _

'Aye, _indeed_,' _Remus continued to glare fixedly at him for a long moment but Balthier was more or less used to this by now and did not allow himself to be perturbed by the scrutiny. _'I want yer to 'andle t'sale. Yer stole the damn fing, might as well 'andle t'whole bluidy business.'

'Excuse me?'

_Balthier was not the only person present who started at this pronouncement. Handling the sale of stolen goods to the right buyer was something that Remus usually handled personally and only delegated to those he trusted implicitly, which of course was not Balthier. To say that his decision was suspect and cause for alarm was something of an understatement in the extreme. However Balthier had learned to keep his feelings from his face at all costs, even during torture, and was not about to slip now. _

'Yer 'eard me,' _Remus grunted finally looking away from Balthier long enough to watch the progress of the Antarii as the pilot gently began their descent towards the Southwest Rozzarian Island of Chantilier's Rest and the port of Cahahouli Bay._

'I don bluidy trust yer, Balthier, but yer ain't about t'do sumit as stupid as steal from me, knows that I do, that's why yer goner 'andle the sale.'

_Balthier quirked an eyebrow as he watched the Antarii slipped through a swathe of low hanging fluffy white cloud towards the cheerful green and verdant isle of Chantilier's Rest. The gleaming white flat roofed buildings clustered over the thickly forested rolling hills of the isle as the Antarii descended looked rather akin to a child's drawing and seemed oddly cheerful and welcoming to Balthier. _

'I am flattered to know you value me so highly,' _he murmured dryly. Despite his less than rousing endorsement Remus' actions spoke louder than his words; he must trust Balthier to a certain extent to even consider allowing him to make the sale; unless of course this was an elaborate trap? _

'Aye, yer bluidy well should be,' _Remus growled, _'An' I don need to tell yer what I'll bluidy do t'yer if'n yer fail me, right boy?' _Remus fixed him with that sallow, yellow stained eye and his savage grin. _

'No,' _Balthier agreed, _'you don't need to tell me that.'

_Even for one of his tender years Balthier had learned early on that there were many things in Ivalice worse than death alone; Remus in a temper was only one of those particular fates worse than death -but he was enough. _

_Silence fell between them as they both turned to watch the final descent of the Antarii into the aerodrome of Cahahouli Bay. Quite abruptly the dancing sunlight on the deep blue and white tipped bobbing surf of the ocean was not so bright or cheerful. The glorious green foliage of the forests lost its lustre and the happy little flat roofed white washed buildings looked less benignly higgledy-piggledy now that Balthier knew, with absolute conviction, that Remus was trying to set him up to take a fall. _

_It would prove to be a fatal fall more than likely. _

_Thinking back on the trials and tribulations he had gone through to acquire the Landis Phoenix for Remus in the first place Balthier had something of an educated premonition that no good would come of any of this. _

'What is the name of the buyer?' _He asked quietly, knowing that he had no choice but to go along with Remus' plan on the hope that he would be able to foil it once he knew something of its shape and substance. _

'A right harpy o' woman, name of Mary-Belle. Some kinda wise woman from the dark skinned parts,' _Remus informed him without any particularly inflection to his tone, _'them do say that she can curse a man t'madness an know the secret of eternal youth.'

'Interesting,' _Balthier murmured thoughtfully, _'What is she really?'

_Remus almost smiled, _'Bounty-hunter. She runs a bounty-hunting clan. Nasty bluidy bunch, but she got t'gil t'pay for t'Phoenix aright.'

_Balthier turned to look directly at Remus as the ship finally docked in the aerodrome and the docking clamps locked into place around the ship like a firm, but protective hand, _'This Mary-Belle commissioned the theft then; this was not a random pinch at all?'

_He had not needed to know the details of why Remus had wanted the Landis Phoenix relic when he stole it but the question had entered his mind more than once. Now Balthier was vaguely intrigued to discover that someone in the outer reaches of the Rozzarian Empire had paid (or promised to pay on delivery) for an ancient artefact of Landis. What possible value would it hold for such a person? _

'How much Gil is this Mary-Belle prepared to part with for the Landis Phoenix?'

'It's up fer negotiation,' _Remus said and Balthier was almost impressed he was able to pronounce the long word correctly – let alone that he knew it to use it, _T'at's why I want yer to 'andle it; yer a tricksy bastard jus' like she is.'

'Do we have a particular sum in mind to open negotiations with?' _He inquired dryly deciding to ignore yet another dig against his integrity. An insult from Remus regarding moral fortitude was absolutely laughable._

'Not'ing less than five 'undred thousand Gil.'

_Balthier blinked, deeply startled. His mind flashed back to an image of the ugly statuette and he found himself astounded. Ancient symbolic relic or not that was a tremendous amount of Gil for something that was, all things considered, nothing more than a very ugly figurine. _

'As much as that?' _He queried weakly before exclaiming before he could help himself, _'Good gods, what is the thing made of: the tears of prophets and the sweat of saints? Surely no one will be foolish enough to part with that sort of Gil for a twelve inch high mantelpiece ornament.'

_Remus actually chuckled, _'Magick. T'Phoenix is magick, 'pparently. Ancient magick. Woman like Mary-Belle pay a lot t'get 'er 'ands on t'at magick.'

_Balthier was unconvinced and he allowed his incredulity to show through in his eyes and his voice, _'Libra Bangles are magick too, but no-one would pay half a million gil for one of those; a libra bangle is a damn sight more useful than an ugly statuette too.'

_Remus snorted derisively as his lackeys (including Aeneas) began the process of disembarking the ship and unloading the other cargo from the cargo holds. Balthier continued to wait on Remus._

'T'at as well be, but yer better knock thoughts like t'at from yer 'ead, boy; I want yer to wrangle as much Gil from the 'arpy witch as yer can.'

_Remus fixed him with that one tarnished eye again; hard and unforgiving. Without warning he grabbed fistfuls of Balthier's white shirt into his large, knobbly knuckled hands and hauled him up almost off his feet. Balthier found himself dancing precariously balanced on tip-toes as Remus breathed into his face. _

'I want yer to lie, cheat, an' promise yer sodding first born child t'woman. Do everyt'ing yer bluidy well can t'get a good price out t'at crazy 'arpy, Balthier; bat yer bluidy eyelashes and talk t'at proper twaddle o' yers - cuz mark me on tis, yer conniving Archadian bastard – yer ruddy hide is riding on this sale.'

_Balthier allowed a handful of seconds to pass before he swallowed inaudibly (dearly wishing he could plug up his nostrils against the rank stench of Remus' breath) he then nodded his head and in smooth, unconcerned voice, mild smirk in place, responded, _'Understood Remus. You can be assured I'll do everything in my power to protect my own _'hide'_.'

_Abruptly Remus let go of his shirt front and gave him a little shove for good measure that caused Balthier to stagger back painfully into the guard railing as he swiftly regained his balance. _

'Aye,' _Remus agreed darkly, _'I thought yer'd say that.'

_Without another word the sky pirate Remus Cutter turned his mountainous bulk jerkily on his heel and left the cockpit of his ship. The big, studded door slid open and shut behind him with a swoosh of smooth hydraulics. _

_Balthier stared out of the window of the cockpit for a moment, blind to the uninspiring view of the aerodrome docking wall; he was thinking furiously. Yes, it was probable Remus was trying to set him up so he could kill him for incompetence or simply kill him and lay the blame elsewhere. Yes he was likely going to need all his wits about him from here on in…..but really how hard could it be to sell one ugly figurine to an interested party who already wanted the damn thing in the first place? _

_After all it was just a bloody ornament – what ill could come of it? _


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Four: 707 O.V. The hull of the Strahl**

Common sense had re-asserted itself in control of his mental faculties almost as soon as he left his cabin and Balthier had decided that seeking out another drink was tantamount to deliberately courting disaster. Which, general opinion and all evidence to the contrary aside, was not something he actually _enjoyed_ doing.

Therefore he decided to do something vaguely productive and took himself to the hull to begin the process of eviscerating the carcass of the Daedelus Snapper; he felt the need to slice something up into bloody pieces and it was infinitely better if that something was already well dead.

'Master Balthier, kupo.' Nono greeted him with cheerful deference. Balthier had lost count of the number of times he had told Nono not to call him 'master' but it had never garnered any success so he had long given up.

'Nono, good morning to you.' he paused when he noted that Nono was busy doing something rather intricate that involved a miniature printing press, a number of little jars of coloured inks and a large container of safety pins. Curious he sauntered over to hunker down beside the Moogle and peer over his shoulder.

'Ah, the membership badges,' he murmured as he caught sight of the cheerful design of two Moogles in silhouette reaching out to grasp hands, their pom-pom plumes twinned together.

'You've decided on this motif then?' he tapped the image that had been reprinted on palm sized disks of hardened paper at least two dozen times already.

'Yes, Master Balthier, kupo. The fraternity of Kupo unanimously approved this design, kupo.'

Balthier lifted one of the finished badges and turned it over to note the safety pin that had been stuck through one of the printed disks so that dedicated members of Nono's social and political movement against the rampant commercialisation and fiscal obsessiveness of Moogle kind could show their allegiances proudly for all to see.

'Hmm, this is the design Cu Sith made is it not?' he asked slyly casting a sideways look Nono's way. As expected the little off-white Moogle bristled with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation.

'Yes, kupo. The philosophy of Kupo does not exclude anyone, even Yahri, Kupo.' He added pretentiously and Balthier swallowed a grin.

'Hmm, indeed, indeed,' He replaced the badge on the overturned packing crate Nono was using as a makeshift desk and arched a brow inquiringly, 'And how is the movement, Nono, membership growing?'

This was exactly the right question to ask as the third crewmen of the Strahl, equal partner in all Balthier and Fran's endeavours (albeit a relatively silent one) became all smiles. For the next twenty minutes, as Balthier gathered the tools he would need to begin to skin and de-scale the Daedelus Snapper, Nono regaled him on the various changes and advancements made by the Movement of Kupo.

Balthier was listening with interest as Nono explained the various philanthropic investments that the movement had made to support Moogle orphans and the preservation of Moogle written and oral history (the Moogle did not explain how one went about 'preserving' an oral account for posterity, however, and Balthier did not want to interrupt the flow by asking) when Fran entered the hull. The clicking of her heels on the metal grated floor announcing her presence long before she ducked through the low doorway and stepped inside.

Balthier watched her covertly while ostensibly working to slide the small flat bladed knife underneath the smooth, pearlescent and vaguely hexagonal plate of one of the Snapper's head scales. Her nose wrinkled delicately as she took in the delightful aroma of dead fish and then she strode forward directly towards him.

He could intuit from the years of partnership Fran's mood by the cadence of her stiletto heels across any given surface; the rhythmic clicks of her heels as she strode across the small distance to come to rest before him, forcing him to crane his neck to look all the way up at her, suggested that she was less than pleased with him at the moment.

Balthier sighed and mentally girded his loins. It was best to jump straight into these conversational deep waters and hope that he could paddle against the current.

'There is a very good reason for why I ended up in your bed last night, Fran,' he told her deciding to get straight to the most pertinent point, 'And when I discover said reason you shall be the first to know.'

Fran cocked an eyebrow and shifted her weight fractionally from one leg to the other. Balthier watched the movement from his position of unintentional supplication and could not help the slight quiver of arousal as he gazed all the way up that statuesque body to her grave, lovely face. Along the leisurely journey his gaze ticked over the smooth, glossy expanse of her magnificent legs, danced over the filmy (completely pointless but very attractive) veil of lace over her flat, lithe stomach and upwards until his eyes locked with hers.

'That you seek comfort in proximity to myself troubles me only in that it is not your way; at least not for some years.'

Fran told him which he in turn translated to mean that she was not offended by his intrusion into her cabin last night on matter of principle only suspicious regarding the circumstances; he could hardly blame her for that.

'Oft times when you have needed solace of the soul you have instead sought it in pleasure of flesh. It is that you seem not to know your own mind that troubles me.'

Balthier winced at her words and the subtle allusion to the one point of contention between them that had remained, like a prickly thorn in the flesh of their partnership, for well over a year. That contentious problem had a name: Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca. Once again Balthier sighed and wondered if he should dare raise her Highness' name right this moment or if doing so would only confound the trouble he was already in.

'Are you questioning my mental stability, Fran?' he asked her instead with teasing smile as his fingers, busy all this time with the skin of the Snapper he had sheared from the carcass to work on, managed to pry a scale loose.

Fran crouched across from him and reached out to take the scale (as long as her own hand) from him and held it to the light to check for imperfections that would affect the sale value.

'Yes.'

She said and Balthier blinked, jerking back a little until he had to catch his balance on his heels to stop from falling backwards on his rear. He was shocked that she would be so blunt as to actually tell him, for all intents and purposes, that she thought he was mad. He could not think of a damned thing to say in response, staggered by a moment of quite shocking pain.

Fran, of course, could sense his inner turmoil and reached out to cup his cheek, 'My trust and loyalty wavers not, Balthier: this you must never question.'

For a moment he savoured the warmth of her palm against his cheek, enjoying the rare moment of physical intimacy, but the truth was that Fran must be worried indeed if she was prepared to touch him in such a way; in fact she must be very worried to let him lie with her twice in one month.

'I don't doubt that Fran.' He said gently pulling away from her and trying to smile with his eyes and not just his lips. He did not think he managed too well.

'What do you doubt?'

Fran asked him quietly lifting the faintly slimy skein of fish skin, which was unpleasantly fibrous and heavy with the scales, from the floor to begin deftly plucking scales from the segment of flesh (taken from the Daedelus Snapper's scalp) with her long clawed nails.

Balthier smiled ruefully and almost laughed, 'Everything Fran; you know that by now. I doubt everything and everyone.' His smile softened, 'You, of course, are the one and only exception.'

Fran studied him with cool red-tinted eyes, 'Then you doubt yourself; within that everything and everyone if I am the only exception then you yourself are open to be doubted.'

Balthier kept the slight smirk on his face easily enough, 'Fran stating the obvious is beneath you: I would be fool indeed if I believed wholeheartedly in myself alone. I am far too untrustworthy for that.'

A silence drifted down on them after that, but it was not particularly awkward or strained. During that absence of needless talking Balthier let Fran de-scale the hank of flesh he had flayed already and moved over to the bifurcated corpse of the Daedalus Snapper (slicing the man-eating fish into pieces had been the only way to transport the damn thing back to the Strahl – or fit it in the hull). He concentrated on doing a passable job of flaying the rest of the skin from the trunk of the fish in neat foot long segments ready for de-scaling. Vaguely he wondered if it was strange – or perhaps cause for alarm - that he should find rending the flesh and bone from a corpse a relaxing pastime?

'The Phoenix?'

Fran's voice broke into his happy, thoughtless activity and he looked over at her blankly, hands slicked with cold fish blood, cutting tools held at the ready. Looking over Balthier could see that Fran had already de-scaled a number of segments of skin and they had a very nice collection of smooth, naturally polished creamy pale and iridescent scales that would fetch perhaps four to five hundred Gil apiece at market. That thought alone made him smile.

'A trap,' Balthier answered the expectant Fran, 'Remus had me steal it and orchestrate the sale. He knew something about the buyer I didn't.' Balthier paused and chuckled darkly, 'Well by that I mean he knew _everything_ about the buyer and I knew nothing.'

He shrugged disinterestedly knowing he did not need to explain his odd 'relationship' with Remus to Fran. She knew all about it and she would not ask him to rake over old ghosts and buried skeletons of his past merely for narrative value.

Balthier looked down at the thin, dark, cold blood all over his hands, slick and faintly acidic, itching against his skin. Dragging his wandering thoughts into order he met Fran's gaze. 'Remus had every intention of being rid of me once and for all; alas others in his confidence had different plans.'

Fran knew him well enough to understand what he did not say, 'Ruthy?'

He sighed and looked over the skinless, slimy carcass strung up with hooks and cables to the roof of the hull in pieces. He could see the tracery of dark blue-black veins and arteries exposed amid the layers of sinuous dark purple and pink muscle along the Daedelus Snapper's trunk wrapped and braided about the framework of its powerful, but delicate, cartilage. It was morbidly appropriate that he should be staring at the sight of ruined dead meat while discussing the decidedly unlamented piratess.

'Yes, Ruthy – and others,' Snapping his thoughts from deep and a dark waters of the mind he flashed a smile Fran's way, 'I have always had a bastard's luck Fran. Now, tell me, what did you do with the Judge Imposter and the street urchins?'

Fran gave him an amused look, 'They have retired to Bhujerba city and await further meeting with you there. I told them there would be no reasoning with you on this morn but should you or I fail to reach the Cloudbourne by noontide they will be back.'

Balthier had not truly believed that throwing Basch out of his ship would be the end of the matter and nodded his head graciously to Fran that she had granted him this slight respite.

'Thank you Fran.' He smiled crookedly, 'While as I am severely tempted to test Vaan's ability to chase us to the ends of Ivalice I have the feeling that avoiding the Magister would not be healthy.'

'It is more than information he wants from you,' Fran agreed. She rose from her crouch and left the piles of scales to come and stand beside him glancing briefly at the gently swinging carcass of the Snapper.

'Hmm, yes, but that is always the case. I am a man always in demand.'

'Know you the whereabouts of the Landis Phoenix?'

Fran tossed her head to swing her long fall of hair back behind her shoulders. Tendrils of that silky silver gossamer brushed against his sleeve.

'Hmm possibly though I'll be damned thrice if I know how it ended up there.' He muttered distractedly. As always he had to repress the desire to reach out and stroke her hair - of course he would have to wash his hands thoroughly before he did so.

Fran quirked a questioning eyebrow and he waved it away; until he was sure he had really seen the Phoenix in the bottom of his chest he was not prepared to speak on it yet. Fran already thought he was losing his grip on sanity and he did not want to do, or say, anything that might suggest she was right.

'I was not lying as such when I told Basch that I knew little of the Phoenix's passage once it left me.' He told his partner wanting to make it clear that if all manner of strangeness and confusion was about to find them it was not on his account.

'But you do know something.' Fran correctly interpreted his words. 'Something you have no wish to divulge.'

Wafting his hands in the air in futile gesture Balthier tried to explain his reticence while avoiding actually telling her anything.

'It is not _divulging_ that is the concern Fran. Believe me this is something I would share with you if I could – if only so that I might finally gain insight into what happened – but I am too uncertain of what happened in those scant few weeks I possessed the damn thing to begin any form of divulgence.'

Fran studied him for a long moment and he waited patiently for her to sift through the tiny tells of his scent, body language and tone of voice to discern his truthfulness and emotional wellbeing. He had become accustomed to such scrutiny and did not mind a bit.

'To Bhujerba we go then? Perhaps it is best to hear what Basch truly requires so that you might set old ghosts to rest?'

Balthier smiled slyly, 'Hmm, perhaps, but I am thinking that Bhujerba is also likely to be a good place to sell our wares.' He gestured towards the Snapper carcass and the scales, 'Perhaps the Marquis himself will be interested in purchasing some Daedelus scales?'

Fran shook her head indulgently, 'You do not change; trouble comes to you on the four winds but you do not hesitate to court more.'

He smiled brightly, 'Fran, please, trouble costs Gil. I am merely being prudent. No doubt we shall be neck deep in epic danger before long and we will need the Gil to buy our way out of a fair proportion of it.'

'You are cheered by the thought of said danger, are you not?'

Fran had murmured an hour later once they had both washed and changed clothes to rid themselves of the scent of dead fish and Nono had neatly parcelled up a selection of the finest scales to take with them into the city.

Settling into the pilot's chair of his darling Strahl Balthier initiated takeoff procedures and they left the greenery of the Dorstonis forests behind them in favour of the glittering pinnacles of Magicite and the tower of the Marquis' residence rising above the Bhujerba skyline.

'Fran, I am the leading man, danger is my element and my arena to shine.' He told her blithely spirits lifted by the simple, endless pleasure of flying his airship. He smirked crookedly, 'it is the mundanity of everyday living that leaves me quite cold with dread.'

Those words of lazy bravado would come back to haunt Balthier rather swiftly. In fact no less than some forty minutes later, on disembarking the Strahl and leaving her under Nono's watchful eyes in the Bhujerba Aerodrome.

No sooner had they set foot along the upward canting cobbled narrow streets of the Cloudbourne sector of the cloud city Bhujerba than did the first of the masked assassins drop all but silently from the slanted, red tiled roof of a tobacconists shop, to land before the bemused sky pirates.

Without a word of greeting the black leather clad hume male lunged toward Balthier with scimitar poised and ready to do to him what Balthier had done to the Daedelus Snapper.

'What in the name of….'

Balthier jumped sideways out of the way of the wild lunge at the last moment and was rewarded for his agility by being tackled from behind by the assassin's companion.

Badly winded as he hit the cobbles of the street Balthier saw stars as his chin cracked against the ground sending red lightening through his skull to the back of his neck. In that moment, had he been alone, he would have died. The assassin's cudgel caving in the back of his skull and bringing the legend of the sky pirate Balthier to its unnaturally early conclusion.

Thankfully he was not alone and Fran's kick to the second hume male assassin's head sent the man flying off Balthier in one direction while his weapon bounced harmlessly across the cobbles.

The first man roared wordlessly and charged Fran. Balthier twisted over so he was on his back on the cobbles and spun about raising his legs to kick the man, two footed, in the sternum as he ran heedlessly at Fran. Fran grabbed at the man as he fell to the ground and wrapped one long hand around his neck.

Balthier hauled himself awkwardly to his feet and touched his fingers to his scraped chin, wiping blood from his mouth where his teeth had sliced open his inner lip as he fell.

All around them local Bhujerbans, including a large number of mine workers on a work break from Lhusu, stood gaping at the unexpected spectacle; Balthier glowered at them and one or two were actually cowered enough to slope off about their business. Nothing short of a nethicite bomb would disperse the rest of the rapt audience however and Balthier gave up the ghost.

Drawing on his vast reserves of dignity Balthier ignored them all and turned his gaze on the squirming assassin. Curling his lip in annoyance Balthier reached down and yanked the leather hood from the man's head.

'Who in blue blazes are you?' Balthier demanded as he eyed the rather young man (barely even that in fact – he was no older than Vaan) with incredulity. The youth had a mop of dark curls on his head and narrowed, fearfully defiant, blue eyes.

'I ain't tellin' yer noffin.' He spat and in so doing told Balthier volumes. Crouching down slightly to the side of the man Balthier exchanged glances with Fran.

'You are from Balfonheim?' Balthier frowned fisting a mass of that greasy curly hair in his hands and jerking the callow youth's head up, 'Do you have any idea who I am?'

The boy snarled a mouthful of profanity and attempted to spit at him, but Balthier had been expecting such and wrenched the boy's head sharply to the side, eliciting a sharp yelp of pain from his would-be attacker and causing the fool to spit on himself.

'Now, now, boy, you should learn to show proper deference to your betters.'

Balthier jerked the foolish idiot's head about to emphasise his point, glancing briefly over at the slumped and still unconscious form of his much more efficient companion. He met Fran's eyes again: they did not have much time before the Bhujerban constabulary became aware of the disturbance and after their recent foray into Ondore's private fish pond Balthier was not sure how much good credit he still had with dear Halim the fourth.

Balthier sighed and nodded to Fran, 'Right then.'

He rose to his feet and dusted off his leather trousers, frowning as he found scuff marks from his recent assisted trip to the ground. He spat out another mouthful of blood onto the cobbles and tried to dab at the bloody wound on his chin with his sleeve: bloody hell another shirt ruined.

'Let's go Fran,' he nodded to her, ignoring the angry moron trapped in the vice grip of his partner's arms and legs, 'we have a Magister to meet with after all, we'll just have to take our new friend with us.' Balthier smiled unpleasantly, 'Perhaps Gabranth will be able to convince our new acquaintance to talk?'

The boy looked worried for a moment and then bravado, machismo and staggering stupidity overcame him once more.

'I ain't afraid o' yer or yer ruddy Judge friends.' He snarled peppering his speech with further profanity Balthier was not prepare to demean himself by listening to. 'Even if I ain't t'one t'kill yer, t'won't matter. Them lot's put a price on yer 'ead; open season on the sky pirate Balthier.'

After another swift visual exchange between himself and Fran Balthier frowned at the boy, 'Who has put a price on my head?'

After Ba'Gamnan's many, many failures and Balthier's close association with various queens and emperors most of the outstanding warrants for his arrest or assassination had been withdrawn. It was news to him that a new bounty had been set on his life.

The idiot boy grinned at him nastily through blackened and uneven teeth, 'Yer ain't so 'igh an' mighty now - least not in Balfonheim.'

'Explain.' Balthier flicked a glance to Fran and she casually squeezed the incompetent assassin's throat with one long hand while digging the nails of her other hand into his ribs; not deep enough to draw blood but hard enough to make it clear that she could.

The boy had begun to go purple and he spluttered so much Balthier almost missed the name when the boy gave it up.

'……(gak)……(cough)……._Rikken_….it was bloody Rikken and Elza. They put the bounty on yer 'ead. They sent me 'ere t'kill yer.'

Balthier, a man with a savagely quick wit and always ready with a quick retort to any situation found himself momentarily lost for words. Confused beyond speech for the moment he sought some manner of explanation in Fran's regard. She stared back at him equally astounded by this most unexpected and inexplicable news.

'Ha!' the boy choked out crowing cruelly, 'See! Yer noffin but a dead man walkin'; the legendary Sky Pirate Balthier, yer goin' end up just another bloodless corpse int' gutter.'

Balthier stared at him for a long moment, then felt his lips curl into his habitual smirk and his spine strengthen as he recovered his wits.

'Not today I won't.'

He murmured blandly before punching the idiot's lights out with a fist to the chin that nearly dislocated the youth's jaw and came close to breaking the knuckles of Balthier's hand. Their audience responded with a smattering of applause as Fran rose to her feet and Balthier turned towards the slack-jawed on-lookers and bowed to all points gaining further applause and one or two whistles.

'Like I told you Fran: this is the leading man's arena,' he murmured dryly to his partner. Fran stepped over the unconscious form of the once talkative would-be killer and shook her hair from her face. She gave him one last long look.

'Let us hope, then, that you are not required to perform a death scene.'


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Five: 702: Cahahouli Bay**

'So this is it, then?'

_Aeneas made a show of hunkering down to peer at the statuette sitting on the table before them looking unassuming and distasteful but hardly dangerous or even overly valuable. _

'Yes.' _Balthier continued to polish his supple leather boots with a soft cloth and smiled faintly when he was able to bring out the shine in the comfortable, malleable leather. _

'It's rather ugly, isn't it?'

_Aeneas tapped his fingers over the furled wing of the statuette and peered at the carven face of the bird sceptically. Crouched down before the small table he peeped over the rim at Balthier._

'I find it disturbing,' _Balthier admitted in an unguarded moment. He slipped his left leg into the boot he had finished polishing and smoothed his trouser leg down underneath it tightening the straps on the boot through the gleaming silver buckles. When he looked up from examining his booted feet Aeneas was watching him curiously._

'Are you feeling quite well, Balthier? I didn't think you were capable of hume emotion; certainly not something as trifling as being _disturbed_.'

_Balthier shrugged just a little, _'Contrary to popular opinion I am hume - with all constituent feelings and impulses; thank you.'

'Impulses, eh?' Well then….' _Aeneas grinned at him and Balthier resisted the very strong impulse to bludgeon the lecherous fool with the damned Phoenix if he even stuttered the first syllable of some manner of risqué comment. He held out a forestalling hand. _

'For the love of the gods, stop, just stop.'

_Aeneas laughed and held up his own hands in momentary surrender as he stood and brushed off his trousers. _'So, shall we be off then?'

_Balthier glanced at the statuette for a moment. Remus had placed it in his keeping in light of the scheduled meeting with the buyer Mary-Belle who had cancelled the initial meeting and delayed it by twenty-four hours; thus Balthier had the dubious responsibility for the object until the meeting the next day. _

_Refusing to acknowledge the faint twirling of unease the smallish oddity elicited in him Balthier reached out and snatched up the Landis Phoenix shoving it into the small leather knapsack. He wasn't about to let the thing out of his sight, especially when, for all he knew, Remus was merely waiting for him to turn his back so he could accuse Balthier of gross incompetence and dereliction of duty and have him flogged or worse. _

'Yes,' _He sighed, _'I suppose so.'

_He was not looking forward to their joint foray into the port of Cahahouli with any great enthusiasm as Aeneas clearly was. In fact Aeneas' enthusiasm was always cause for concern. Still Balthier needed to reconnoitre the tavern he was due to meet the buyer in and he supposed, on some level, it could be beneficial to have Aeneas with him ….if only as a witness should he need to defend his actions to Remus._

_Aeneas waited for him to rise to his feet, shoulder the knapsack, and join him at the doorway to the tiny bolt-hole cabin under the wing that served as Balthier's sleeping quarters._

'Cheer up, mate, you look like you're being marched to your execution not going out with your fabulously handsome, suave and sophisticated, friend.'

_Balthier considered Aeneas with a healthy scepticism, _'Hmm.'

_After that they left the Antarii in silence – or rather Balthier was silent while Aeneas carried on a contented one-sided conversation with himself – and hit the boardwalk of the Cahahouli main street as the sun reached its zenith. _

_Balthier felt his spirits lift along with the familiar stirring of his ever-present curiosity at the scenery and life unfolding around him. Cahahouli was filled with activity and colour; saffron and cerulean tied silks billowed like exotic flags from lines strung above their heads and a flower-girl pushed a posey of large dark eyed yellow daisies at Balthier as he passed her. _

_The child, olive skinned with dark, doleful eyes was dressed exuberantly in a glorious pink silk billowing tunic, but the fabric was frayed and the child's cheekbones protruded too far in her sallow face. Balthier stopped, fished some coins from his belt pouch (undoubtedly more than the whole basket of flowers was worth) and shoved them into the child's palm accepting the small, pitiful posey with a wink and slight smile: he remembered what it was to be hungry. _

_The child flashed him a gap-tooth grin and yammered something in a dialect he did not know, presumably in gratitude, before turning to try her luck with the next wandering soul passing by in front of the cheerful awnings and signs of the quayside shops. Aeneas had watched the whole thing and Balthier turned back to him with a look that dared him to make some manner of comment as he tucked the limp flowers into his knapsack over the Phoenix. _

_Wisely Aeneas refrained from commenting on Balthier's act of charity and instead walked along in companionable silence as Balthier amused himself looking about him at the sights and sounds and tastes and smells of a new and interesting locale. _

_A lone Viera with pale yellowish hair and golden skin caught Balthier's attention as he and Aeneas strolled the boardwalk; Balthier had never seen a Viera before. The Viera race were reclusive and had never congregated in hume cities in large numbers so it was understandable that he would not have seen a Viera in the flesh before; strangely the woman caught his eye briefly for a second and he had the strangest idea that she had witnessed his interaction with the flower-girl and approved. _

_The encounter was over in an eye-blink however and he and Aeneas continued on their way. The scent of cinnamon and spice curled about his nostrils. Balthier breathed deeply trying to interpret the scents, separating them one from the other. He could smell cooking spices and cured meat, tobacco and charcoal and something heady and intoxicating. _

'Bit different from the quayside of Archades, isn't it?' _Aeneas cut him a sly, knowing look as they ambled along. Balthier acknowledged his point with a sly smile. _

'There are people back there who would turn in the graves they richly deserve to see me walking through a Rozzarian port.'

_Aeneas chuckled, _'Now that is a cast iron truth, my friend.'

_Balthier held onto his smile but took a moment to covertly study his friend. He had long suspected that Aeneas knew precisely who he truly was, despite the fact that his identity was kept secret by Remus; it was generally viewed as safest not to advertise the fact that one of the wealthiest scions of Archades – and a wanted traitor to the Empire -was in the employ of a well-known sky pirate. _

'You're thinking too hard again; you should stop that, it won't help you get a girl.' _Aeneas had noticed his scrutiny, but then despite appearances, the other neophyte pirate was not stupid. _

'Do you suppose Remus wants me dead?'

_Balthier decided not to deny that he was thinking and also ignored yet another comment about wooing or suchlike. Aeneas glanced at him thoughtfully but did not bother to feign surprise at the question._

'I think he's testing you,' _Aeneas conceded seriously as they came to a natural stop just outside the local tavern, which seemed to be called 'The Rose and Thorn'_ _in standard Ivalic tongue, presumably for the out-of-town travellers benefit._ 'Just like always.'

_Aeneas leaned casually against the honey hued outer brick wall of the tavern and swept a hand through his long swathe of fine red hair. His pose was one of practiced nonchalance designed to allow passing strangers of a female persuasion the opportunity to bask in the natural wonder that was Aeneas' lean, tall, strapping physique. _

_Balthier resisted rolling his eyes at the vanity of his friend – though he noted, thoughtfully, that the ruse was successful - and instead perched on top of a stack of packing crates standing about three foot high. He drew up one knee and rested one arm across it to recline against the crate. He tapped his fingers over his knee. _

'Testing me to what ends?'

_Aeneas merely shrugged eyes scanning the quayside for comely wenches most likely._

'Who knows? Despite your own raging paranoia I really don't believe that Remus wants you dead. I think he just wants to gain control over you. He wants to feel like he has power over you.'_ He smiled at a twosome of young girls in fine fettle and bonnets, doffing an imaginary hat as they passed. The pair giggled behind lace gloved hands and scuttled by shooting Aeneas sly looks over their shoulders. _

'He could kill me at any time, he regularly beats me bloody. What further leverage does he want?'

_Balthier watched the two young girls pass with mild disinterest. However he did note with keener interest a man and a woman, standing at the end of the wide wharf alongside a large passenger boat. The man was dressed in the Archadia style but not ostentatiously so and the woman was obviously trying to look like a local – however something about the way they stood together, watching the sparse crowds flocking the wharf - raised the hackles on the back of Balthier's neck. _

'He wants your loyalty; most of us can be bought or terrorise to serve him loyally but not you. Remus knows he might be able to kill you but that's all he can do; he'll never break you and he'll never be able to figure out what you are thinking.' _Aeneas answered the question Balthier had almost forgotten asking. _

_Reluctantly he tore his attention from the unusual couple standing at the end of the wharf and turned back to Aeneas, quirking an eyebrow inquiringly, _'Thinking is not Remus' strong suit.'

_Aeneas shook his head dryly, _'He's smart enough to know his own limitations, mate, and how to compensate for them.'

_Balthier nodded his head distractedly gaze going back to the man and woman who seemed, although he couldn't be completely sure at over sixty feet away at the end of the wharf, to be watching him as intently as he watched them. A shiver of concern inched down his spine. His brows drew together over his forehead and he slipped off his perch on the crates, brushing down his trouser legs with absent-minded fastidiousness. _

'How about a drink?'

_He turned to Aeneas with a nod towards the double doors of the tavern. Aeneas smiled in agreement but scanned the wharf once more, this time his gaze was wary not lecherous, he had clearly noted Balthier's unease._

'So what was it?'

_Aeneas demanded as soon as they had entered the tavern, which was tolerably crowded but not impossibly so. _'What did you see outside that spooked you?'

_The inside of the Rose and Crown was as filled with colour and energy as the rest of Cahahouli Bay. People, primarily of a hume persuasion, but of all creeds and colours, crowded around the gaming tables and perched on barstools alongside the long, polished wooden bar. The ceiling was made of coloured and tinted glass and the sun came through that enormous skylight to dapple the interior in luminous shades of red, green, pink and blue. In the corner of the room a small band of musicians, both string and brass, played a jaunty tune. _

_Balthier and Aeneas shouldered their way toward the bar and Balthier, confident that his voice would not carry over the thrum of voices and music in the tavern, answered. _'Man and woman down at the end of the wharf. The man was Archadian by his dress and I'd swear the woman was not the local she clearly contrived to appear to be. I think they were watching me.'

_Aeneas ordered a pitcher of imported ale (which he expected Balthier to pay for) and they moved away from the bar to try and find a table. In the end they went up to the small mezzanine floor above where it was quieter and more shadowed. _

'You don't think you might be a tad paranoid?' _Aeneas poured the ale into the two tankards they had been given alongside the pitcher. _

_Balthier, sitting so he could look down through the wrought iron railings at the floor below, shook his head coolly. _'Not anymore.' _He nodded towards the doors of the tavern where the suspicious man and woman had just entered. _'That's them; tell me that they are not suspicious?'

_The woman led the man straight over to the bar where they conversed briefly with the barman who did not look entirely happy with the conversation. Then the couple left the bar without ordering a drink and moved straight over to the large notice board that took up one whole wall of the lower floor of the tavern. _

'Is that some kind of bill?'

_Aeneas leaned over the railing for a better look while Balthier, conversely, drew back into the shadow away from the railing as the woman turned around at the notice board to scan the patrons of the tavern once more and the man affixed some manner of notice to the board. _

_If asked Balthier would say, if he deigned to respond at all, that he was not a particularly intuitive person. He preferred reason to instinct and fact to feelings; at least that is what he would like people to believe. The truth was when his instincts spoke he listened and right now his instincts were screaming danger. _

_After affixing the notice to the board the man and woman left as swiftly as they had arrived, clearly they had no interest in cards or the lively playing of the musicians. For twenty minutes after the strangers departure Balthier and Aeneas sat and finished their tankards in silence and strained nonchalance then, under silent agreement, Aeneas went down to check the board while Balthier waited, trying to hold in check the irrational, but powerful, impulse to run. _

_He watched Aeneas weave through the patrons of the tavern towards the notice board. He watched him scan the board casually, ignoring the new bill with consummate skill and then, with the deft ease that made Aeneas such a good thief, his friend tore down the bill the two strangers had placed on the board and turned around, tucking the paper into his crushed blue velvet jacket pocket._

'Well?' _Balthier demanded when Aeneas finally managed to make his exaggeratedly nonchalant way back to their table on the second floor. Without a word, his face oddly solemn, Aeneas pulled the paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out across the table top. _

'See for yourself.'

_Balthier, almost twitching with nerves, looked down at the bill. In an instant all the blood left his head at once and froze solid in his arteries. The breath caught in his chest and his lungs constricted. The writing emblazoned across the bill blurred before the run of his eyes as Balthier fought to maintain his composure. _

'This cannot be.'

_Upon the bill was a rather good pen sketch, reproduced via printing press, of his own face – or rather the face of the two years missing Ffamran Mid Bunansa. Balthier stared mutely, in dumb-struck horror as his own dark eyes looked solemnly back at him from the printed page and the ink drawn slightly curly brown hair dusting the portrait's proud forehead looked almost exactly like Balthier's own hair did now. _

_Above and below the reproduction of his likeness was written in a number of the most commonly used languages of Ivalice: _

**Wanted: have you seen this man? Any information on the whereabouts of this man, Ffamran Mid Bunansa, will be handsomely rewarded. If you can locate, correctly identify, and return this man to his family you will be rewarded 500,000 Gil; any inquiries or information to be forwarded to Dr Cidolfus Demen Bunansa, Draklor Laboratories Archades. **

_Balthier felt the burn of the ale he had just drunk trying to claw its way back up his throat as bile heaved in his stomach. He gripped the edges of the table tightly as his vision swam with black and white dots. He struggled to swallow down the mind twisting terror and panic that filled him. The violent tremors afflicting his arms vibrated through his fingers gripping the table causing the beer pitcher to tremble. _

'Balthier, mate, you have to pull yourself together.'

_He could not think, he could not reason, he could not comprehend let alone respond to Aeneas urgent advice; almost two years since he had run from Archades, leaving in a trail of infamy and fresh treason, almost two years since he had last spoken to his father and now this. _

_He could not countenance that his father would ever bother to search out the son who had betrayed him and brought disgrace to the proud and patriotic name of Bunansa. He could not imagine that his father would still be looking for him two years later. The feelings that percolated within him at the evidence, in black and white, that his father had not forgotten him, had not condemned him as traitor and renounced him utterly, were as contradictory as they were impossible to ignore. _

_Balthier did not know what to do and this was not a sensation he was used to. He had become accustomed to always playing any situation, no matter how seemingly detrimental to him, in his favour and expertly contriving flukes and outrageous luck against the most impossible odds with masterful aplomb. Now however all he wanted to do was vanish, to disappear or run away. _

_His gaze sought the spirals of tinted glass sunlight that filtered down from the huge skylight above his head. He wanted to fly as far away from this wanted bill as he could. He wanted to go where no one could find him and report his presence to his father._

_He wanted to escape._

_No sooner had the thought fully formed, in desperate, quivering totality, within his mind and heart then did Balthier feel the weight of the knapsack leaning against his right shin with sudden acuity. He thought he felt a distant breeze, rising from nowhere, trail through his hair and the weight of the Phoenix against his leg through the knapsack. There was a swimming sensation as if all his surroundings rippled and shimmered before his eyes. _

_Balthier frowned opening his mouth to say something (though he knew not what) to Aeneas. Before he could formulate a sound however, the high, imperious screech of an eagle or some great hunting bird tore through his mind. He flinched violently, ducking his head and squinting closed his eyes instinctively as if a bird really was swooping down at his head from above. _

_Something happened then, and for years thereafter Balthier would never know completely what did transpire, but suddenly he was no longer gripping the edge of the tavern table for dear life. He was no longer trying to gather his wits and think through his panic in a public place surrounded by potentially hostile strangers and paid spies. _

_Suddenly he was standing in a wide, wind-swept valley in the shadow of distant snow-capped blushing purple mountains. The field was filled with the sweet scent of heather and brisk mountain air undiluted by the presence of large hume settlements or technology. Fluffy white clouds scudded over an impossibly blue sky tossed about by the roiling wind. The distant black flecks of birds soared over his head. _

_Balthier turned around once and then again in a tight circle, taking in the wide open and empty space he stood in. He could detect no inkling of any habitation for as far as the eye could see. There was nothing before him but undulating valleys of violet blooming heather smattered with little yellow flowers here and there; in the distance towards the mountains stood a stand of pine and fir trees. Balthier had absolutely no comprehension where he was or how he came to be here. _

_He also did not know why he appeared to be holding the Landis Phoenix in his hands. Dazedly he looked down at the statuette, noting in a vague way, that the bird's wings were fully unfurled as if in flight and the statuette's beak was open on a proud and silent hunting call. _

'What the blue blazes is going on?' _Balthier asked no one in specific because there was no one to speak too. He hefted up the Phoenix and eyed the innocuous statuette that he would swear kept changing pose when he was not looking, suspiciously._

_He had wanted to escape. He remembered that clearly, he had wanted to get away from that crowded tavern and any prying eyes. Balthier's eyes widened as the tiny inkling of a thought too outlandish to countenance tickled his hindbrain as he looked down at the Landis Phoenix._

'No,' _He said out loud, though he was definitely (and most emphatically) not addressing himself to an inanimate object made of granite and marble. That would be ridiculous; what he was thinking was ridiculous, therefore he would think it no longer. _

'Ludicrous; the whole thing is ludicrous.' _He scoffed, though even to his own ears his assertion sounded less than confident. _

_The knapsack was gone - where Balthier did not even want to speculate – and so Balthier had no choice but to keep the troublesome ornament in his hand as he started off across the pungent field in an arbitrarily chosen direction. He had no idea where he was, or if he was even still in Chantilier's Rest, so it mattered not which direction he started walking; he had no choice but to walk until he found someone on a road or a signpost or a settlement, or some such thing, so he could orientate himself. _

_There was a rational, sensible explanation for all this, he assured himself as he started the long trek through the aromatic field in the middle of nowhere. Certainly he was not about to give credence to the notion that his current predicament had anything to do with the ugly statuette in his hand. That would ludicrous, completely preposterous. He might as well believe that his father's old invisible friend, the one that had convinced him that his father was truly mad, was real._

_It was a pity, really, that Balthier was not ready to accept the possibility that the Landis Phoenix was in fact more than an ugly mantelpiece ornament, because had he simply asked the Phoenix to return him to his former location he would have saved himself a considerable walk back to civilisation. _

_In fact many things would have gone very differently indeed and saved him considerable strife had Balthier been a little more open-minded. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Six: 707: Bhujerba**

When Balthier and Fran entered the Cloudbourne they received more than a few curious stares, but this was not unusual. Even in this day and age a man and a Viera strolling into a tavern tended to raise a few eyebrows. Now a-days simply to confound the matter there was also a good chance that those gazes would be filled with a certain awe-filled recognition.

Balthier had been working towards his own brand of recognisable infamy before his unfortunate decision to rob the Rabanastran palace treasury, now, after two successful stints saving Ivalice from various forms of tyranny and suchlike, he and Fran had ascended to the status of living legends.

This was not quite as gratifying as he might have hoped.

Really, it was no wonder he'd been restless of late. What did a man do when he had achieved his life time ambition by the age of twenty-three? Would he ever more spend the rest of his days in an agony of perpetual anti-climax?

Thoughts such as these had been percolating in his mind for months. Festering like open wounds or fresh burns, like those that marred his hands still from the disaster that was the Bahamut. With every passing day Balthier sensed that he was at another of life's crossroads; he simply did not know what direction to take.

'What happened to you?'

Vaan demanded curiously eyeing Balthier as he and Fran, having espied the table of the unlikely threesome and walked confidently over to them ignoring all curious and wary gazes as they passed, reached their 'comrades'. The incognito Judge Impostor (Basch would have looked less conspicuous in full armour –the man's ramrod posture instantly betraying him) arched a scarred brow as he regarded Balthier's scraped and bloody chin and the scuffle marks on his clothing. Fran, as always, managed to look entirely unsoiled from the ambush.

'We were considering going to look for you, I now suspect we did well to stay our haste a little.' Basch murmured almost laconically.

Balthier pulled out two spare chairs from a nearby empty table (the Cloudbourne was quiet for the time of day) for Fran and himself and waited for Fran to be seated before he slumped (artfully) down into the chair himself. He also deliberately ignored Basch's pointed statement.

'Are you alright Balthier?' Penelo was seated at his left and she immediately began rooting in the embroidered satchel she habitually carried for a potion bottle. Fran reached out a deft hand to cup his chin and turn his head her way; tilting his jaw left and right as she examined his wound.

'It is a trifling thing. The blow is not so great.' She released him and nodded to Penelo who handed him a potion bottle with a curious, but sympathetic smile.

'Yes,' Balthier demurred flatly after forcing a faint smile of gratitude for Penelo and uncorking the potion bottle, 'I barely felt it at all when a large man tackled me to the ground from behind and slammed my face into the cobbles.' He drank the potion straight and winced at the astringent taste.

'So?' Vaan, sitting opposite on the other side of the round table, leaned forward, elbows on the table-top. His expression was intent, 'What happened then?'

Balthier flapped a hand dismissively, 'Apparently Rikken and Elza have put an unspecified price on my head.'

Basch tapped his fingers on the metal side of his, seemingly untouched, ale tankard meditatively. 'What did you do to offend your fellow pirates?' he did not seem overly surprised at the notion that Balthier's life was up for the taking or appalled by the fact. Aggrieved Balthier narrowed his eyes at the other man.

'I can think of no reason, logical or otherwise, why Rikken or Elza would pay others to kill me.' He stated in very level voice.

Basch actually smiled ever so slightly, 'But you can think of a reason they would choose to kill you personally?'

Balthier actually thought about this. His relationship with the Balfonheim based pirates was not precisely cordial but was, he had long thought, built on a foundation of mutually shared goals and mutually acquired profit. They had been partners in crime on numerous occasions. He hadn't had any cause, since the debacle in Lemures, to have contact, positive or otherwise, with Rikken, Elza or their diminutive Bangaa compeer however. Surely absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder not homicidal?

'No,' he said slowly, 'I can't think of any reason those two might have to kill me either via proxy or in person.'

'Right,' Vaan said loudly in the voice he clearly hoped was authoritative but was, in fact, simply loud. 'So I guess we need to go to Balfonheim and find out what's really going on, huh?'

Balthier quirked an eyebrow, 'You can go to Balfonheim if you wish, personally I have no desire to stroll nonchalantly into a town whose inhabitants want me dead.' He shrugged and turned his back on Vaan to face Fran with sudden exasperation.

'This is all incredibly inconvenient.'

She nodded, without comment. Perhaps his partner was also feeling the first strain of the boredom and apathy that had taken root in Balthier? The thought was not comforting. He was no longer the boy filled with wild schemes who was terrified of losing her but, truthfully, he was not that far removed from him either. If Fran was bored it meant he was failing in the promise he had made her: she was no longer sufficiently entertained and diverted from her solitude.

For a moment Balthier wondered, for all he had done in his adult life, for all his adventures, what did he truly have to show for it? What would he be without Fran; a man with an old airship whose own friends periodically tried to kill him. It wasn't much of a life, was it?

Shaking such maudlin thoughts from his forebrain he considered what to do in the immediate present and in terms of the rut he seemed to have found himself in. Perhaps it was time to break old and tried patterns, if only to combat encroaching apathy? He tapped his fingers on the table-top while he gathered him thoughts; was it time for a full disclosure?

'Enough trivialities,' he looked over to Basch who sat to Fran's right, 'Why don't you tell me what your adolescent master wants of me so that we can conclude this business promptly and go about our separate lives, hmm?'

By this Balthier meant that he could go about the business of trying to _find_ a life; surely his recent restlessness was indicative of his dissatisfaction with his life as it was? It was time for a change. Time to open a new chapter in the rambling, glorious tale of his life………deciding what that new chapter would entail would be half the fun.

'I have said,' Basch replied brusquely thin lips pursed in a moue of irritation.

'Yes, and I am unconvinced.' Balthier replied with a smile, 'in fact, I am seriously questioning little lord Larsa's wits if he thinks such a ruse would fool me. If you know about myself and Remus then you must know who the buyer was also and therefore I fail to see the purpose for your presence here.'

Basch cocked his head thoughtfully and then nodded, 'Aye; I suppose I'll grant you that. We know who the buyer was supposed to be.'

'Then I repeat my question: what is it you and your hormonal lordship want of me?'

Balthier noted but refrained from commenting on the 'supposed to be' comment. It was interesting and suggested any number of things but Balthier was not about to be side-tracked. He was sore from the ambush, still had a slight headache either from his hang-over or his close encounter with the cobbled street and, truth be told, he was growing a tad hungry.

'Hey, wait,' Vaan interjected before Basch could begin to answer. He and Penelo had been watching the exchange between the two men intently but now Vaan had clearly decided that enough time had gone by without any inane commentary from him and seemed compelled to waste good air with his useless prattle; of course that might just be Balthier being uncharitable.

Vaan glared at him hotly. 'You're just going to ignore the fact that our friends are trying to kill you?'

No, it wasn't just uncharitable assumption on his part; Vaan really didn't have anything of merit to say. Balthier gave him a flat look.

'Yes, now shut up.'

Vaan did so, but more out of reflex at Balthier's short-temper – which, really, he should be used to by now. Even Balthier, after the umpteenth time of being chastised by Fran, had had to concede he was less than patient with Vaan and had only been growing more irritated by the Rabanstran's presence since Lemures.

They were always so..._expectant_. The children (and they were children, full of naive optimism that made Balthier feel old, or worse merely jaded) always seemed to expect that Balthier would live up to the best of his lies at all times. The ruse of the leading man had become a yoke around his neck. The children a yammering conscience he would sooner do without.

Right now, to prove the point, Vaan was clearly just girding himself to make some manner of aggrieved and wounded retort and Penelo was giving Balthier her version of a venomous glare (the sweet-hearted girl would have to work on her technique as she most closely resembled a kicked dreamhare) when Fran interrupted before the conversation could dissolve into recriminations.

'This will not be the first time Balthier has lived under a promise of demise. Until the long knives are drawn there is little to be gained by wasting concern on such.'

'Aye, I would think that a man of your character would be familiar with deaths threats.' Basch added dryly giving Balthier a pale watery blue eyed look.

'Touché,' He drawled inclining his head in ironic acknowledgement, 'and now that we have maligned my character perhaps we can go back to the matter at hand?' He added.

'Which isn't the fact that people are trying to kill you?' Vaan scoffed darkly, slouched back in his chair looking petulant. Ah, so the boy had finally found a comeback, had he?

'No, because no one is trying to kill me at the present time,' Balthier pointed out with strained patience, 'but our dear Judge Impostor is here right now.'

Basch didn't look entirely pleased by the title Balthier bestowed upon him but refrained from comment. Which was as well, Balthier was not prepared to engage in two arguments at the same time with two different opponents.

'And you don't think that just ignoring the fact that people are trying to kill you might be a bad idea, huh?' Vaan demanded.

Balthier studied him sceptically. Tow-haired and earnest eyed Vaan still looked like a moon-faced vacuous boy and it was exceedingly easy to forget that, for a small percentage of the time, Vaan was not quite that stupid. On occasion he could be quite shrewd in a strangely bland and inoffensive way.

'I am not ignoring the point, Vaan, merely prioritising my attention.' He tried to make his tone almost conciliatory, which admittedly he was not overly good at.

'Fine, so why don't you just tell Basch what he wants to know because if Larsa told him not to say he's not going to tell us anything.'

Vaan scowled, his arms folded across his chest as he slouched in his chair and Balthier had a transitory moment to wonder if, at eighteen, he himself had ever looked quite so obstinately petulant and difficult. Worryingly he rather thought he might have done, certainly the almost hidden expression of amusement on Fran's placid features suggested to him that she too saw the similarities.

The realisation was not pleasant but it did force him to view Vaan as more than just a persistent annoyance that would not leave him in peace.

Balthier considered what Vaan had said; he knew better than to completely disregard the young self-professed sky pirate (it would be a long time before Balthier acknowledged him as anything more than a pretender) but it went against his grain to do other than ignore almost everything that came out of the boy's mouth. Still it was worth considering Vaan's 'advice'.

In truth he didn't really have that much to hide in regards the Landis Phoenix, aside from the fact that he had stolen the object in the first place, on behest of his sky pirate master who he had later assassinated, and disregarding the possibility that the object in question might once more, miraculously and inexplicably, be in his possession. None of that mattered however because Basch and the Emperor of Archadia apparently knew about it – except for the Phoenix in the cedar chest -which might just be a hangover related hallucination. No, all things considered, Balthier mused sardonically, he had very little to hide this time.

'All I know of the Landis Phoenix is that it has some manner of,' he paused to consider, '_teleportational _magick that seems to be randomly activated by holding the object for too long, or something of a similar nature.'

In truth he didn't know how the magick of the Phoenix worked and very much hoped this would continue to be the case. He had had more than enough of the Phoenix five years ago.

Basch looked grim, 'You know this for a fact?'

'From personal experience; the bloody thing dumped me in the mountains of western Rozzaria. I very nearly died because of it.' This statement was absolutely true if one viewed the facts from a certain perspective – certainly the Phoenix had been a contributory factor at the very least.

Basch's face could have been carved from a particularly craggy cliff-face. He was clearly trying to hide a great many thoughts. Balthier, however, suspected that everything he had said simply confirmed some manner of suspicion Basch had. Still, there was little that could be done about that now.

'Died, you say?' the formerly dead man in the dead brother's guise murmured through stiff lips.

'Hmm,' Balthier could not help the wolfish smile that curved his lips. For all of a handful of moments this game of words could be quite entertaining, 'Exposure - it is cold in the mountains.'

'Exposure?' sooner or later Basch's speech would devolve to the level of inarticulate grunts, he was sure.

'Quite.' He nodded, lips quivering, 'I was definitely exposed in the mountains.' Again this was true - it just wasn't the cold that had offered the real danger.

'You did not die, obviously, so how did you come to part ways with the Landis Phoenix?'

'After avoiding near death I trekked back to civilisation and made the trade for the Phoenix with the buyer, the late Mary-Belle. After that I dismissed the damn thing from my mind completely until your arrival this very morn.' As far as synopses went this one was rather succinctly put. It was truthful but managed to skip over most of the meat of the story.

'And that is the last you knew of the Landis Phoenix?' Basch pressed, 'You know not what this Mary-Belle used the Phoenix for or what became of it after her death?'

Mary-Belle, den-mother of one of Ivalice's most notorious and viciously effective bounty-hunting clans had met with her demise shortly after the fall of Nalbina; alongside most of her clan. Somehow, in between deposing and massacring ancient monarchist dynasties and framing loyal knights of the order for regicide, the occupying forces of the Empire had found the time to persecute the remnants of the old criminal fraternity of Dalmasca who had been far too stupid or arrogant to run for the hills when the war came.

Mary-Belle had been hung from the gutted courtyard of the desecrated Nalbina central square in the shadow of the ruined fortress along with some of her most loyal adherents. It had been a fairly pitiable end for a once vibrantly wicked woman. Then again many had died during the occupation and it had not been just the innocent and blameless who suffered.

The old Archadian Empire, if nothing else, had operated a non-discrimination policy when it came to victimisation and brutality. No one was exempt from the empire's cruelty whatever their race, age, gender or creed.

'No,' Balthier answered Basch with complete sincerity, 'I can't say I spared much thought at all to Mary-Belle's death or what became of her possessions. If I had thought of the Phoenix in anyway I might have supposed that, if Mary-Belle had possessed the thing at the time of her death, then the Empire would have seized it when they seized her.'

Basch did not seem entirely happy with this answer. 'The Landis Phoenix was never reclaimed.' He said quietly. 'It took many months and many bribes to low people to find out how the Phoenix came to be in the hands of criminals. I have been unable to find out what happened to it after you gave it to that woman.'

Balthier did not imagine the resentment and accusation directed his way in Basch's voice and he sighed, feeling tired and hungry and fed up with the whole matter. 'I apologise that I was not more discerning when selling stolen goods to known criminals. I will be more careful in future.'

Basch slammed his fist onto the table top making Penelo and Vaan both jump, Balthier raised both brows and Fran simply watched the Knight in Magister's clothing warily, 'Damn it man, this is no time for off colour jokes.'

For a moment he simply watched the Judge Impostor try to regain his composure coolly. 'Hmm, I'll bear that in mind should I make any off-colour jokes.'

Balthier made to rise from the chair and Fran smoothly followed suit. So easily did she do so that it almost seemed as if they moved in synchronicity; the one thought powering the movements of the two separate bodies.

Basch's large, sword calloused hand shot out to grasp Balthier's blood spattered arm, 'Your word that you know not what became of the Phoenix?' something like panic flickered in the usually impossibly stoic eyes of the older man.

Balthier frowned, glancing over Basch's head as he remained seated to exchange a glance with Fran. She shrugged fractionally. That one movement stated clearly to Balthier that she would follow his lead however he chose to react to the situation.

Balthier slipped back into his chair and Basch released his arm. 'I think, Basch, that you had best tell me the whole story, hmm?' he said without any mockery or distain.

Despite all actions and interactions to the contrary Balthier did not dislike Basch Fon Ronsenberg. He would not call him a friend, they were far too dissimilar in temperament and ideology to ever tolerate each other socially for more than a few hours but he did, in a strange way, respect the man for his altruism, his steadfast loyalty, honour, and selflessness. If Basch was in trouble Balthier would move to help him if he could do so without endanger himself and Fran.

Basch shook his head and let out a deep breath that blew forth like air expelled from a huge bellows. 'Larsa has staked much on forging a lasting, equitable settlement with the resistant movement in Landis. He wants to grant my homeland her autonomy but create trading agreement between Landis and Archadia that do not leave the Empire vulnerable. He also wishes to ensure that the Archadian settlers living in Landis are protected.'

Balthier glanced down at his hands, noting the dried blood (his own) under his close clipped fingernails and once more frowning at the pinkish-brown rosette burn scars that dusted the palms and backs of his hands. He thought fiercely, divining the hidden implications of Basch's words.

'A risky manoeuvre,' he murmured looking up and watching Basch's face, 'Larsa is risking upsetting the military sect within the Archadian gentry by handing back land won in conquest and he is offering a great deal to men who despise Archadia. I know some of the Landis resistance – they would sooner cut all ties with Archadia and would favour doing so with the blade not the pen and treaty.'

'Aye,' Basch's eyes were tired, worn, and worried, 'Larsa is not secure in his power. The abuses of his brother and the losses the Empire has suffered since the Great War are being levelled at his door. There are some in Archades who view Larsa as a traitor for aiding the Lady Ashe and consorting with Al-Cid Margrace.'

Balthier smiled faintly, 'That does not surprise me; Archades has always excelled in producing bigots and fools.' He tapped his fingers against the table top, 'Should the negotiations between the Empire and Landis fail I should imagine Larsa's detractors will use that as justification for some manner of coup?'

'Aye, I fear so. Larsa could lose his position as Emperor, there would be civil war in Achadia and I would have failed in my duty to both lord Larsa and my brother.'

'So,' Balthier continued thoughtfully maintaining eye contact with the troubled older man, 'I am assuming that the Landis faction want the Phoenix returned before they will put pen to paper and sign any agreements, hmm?'

'Tis so,' Basch rubbed a blunt fingered hand against the knot of scar tissue over one eyebrow, 'I do not blame my countrymen but I do not think they know what damage they do with their recalcitrance.'

Balthier chuckled thinking about the men and women of his acquaintance who made up the Landis resistance, 'Oh, they know. No doubt they are rather enjoying the accidental power they have over Larsa.'

Basch could only shake his head, not in argument but merely a reflexive response to situations and circumstances outside of his control, 'The Landis Phoenix has vanished. It could be anywhere in Ivalice or it has already been destroyed. There is little more I can do.'

The old soldier's hands balled into fists on the table top, knuckles whitening in helpless frustration and suppressed desperation. The man's gaze burned slightlessly through the table witnessing an inner vista of failure. Balthier, who knew something of the trials that this man had faced while trying to do his duty to others, found himself feeling uncharacteristically sympathetic. Basch Fon Ronsenberg had paid his dues; he did not deserve more strife. Once more he looked over to Fran, who had also resumed her seat. She nodded her head in quick assent knowing, without the need for words, what it was he was considering.

'How much time is there before Larsa must produce the Phoenix?'

Basch's gaze snapped back up to Balthier, intent and focused upon his face. 'There is to be a summit in a fortnight.'

Balthier quirked an eyebrow, 'That is cutting things a little fine don't you think, your honour?'

Basch managed a wry smile, 'I have been searching out information on the Phoenix for the last four months.'

'Indeed; as long as that?' One had to wonder at the wisdom of putting a man so inept at gathering information in charge of the Archadian Judiciary Intelligence Bureau –but that was not Balthier's concern.

He exchanged another glance with Fran aware in the periphery of his vision that Penelo and Vaan were watching him like hungry fiends; their gazes sharp, bright and expectant (always so bloody expectant). Fran shrugged but something in her veiled gaze suggested a certain alertness and energy in her regard that had been missing for months. They had a purpose once more.

Balthier felt his smirk slide into place as he rose smoothly from his seat once more. As he did so Fran rose with him and Penelo and Vaan leapt to their feet so swiftly they almost over-turned their chairs.

'We're going to go and find the Phoenix aren't we Balthier?' Penelo asked excitedly.

Balthier regarded her dryly, 'Finding the bloody thing might be the least of it; keeping it in one place should prove them real challenge.'

Especially if the Phoenix was still in his cedar chest, and still had the same habit of independent travel it had possessed five years prior, Balthier added silently within the confines of his own mind.

Ignoring Penelo and Vaan's happy grins – which seemed slightly smug as if they had never doubted that Balthier would assist in the endeavour – he turned back to Basch.

'What is the date when this summit is supposed to take place?'

Basch gave him the date without performance and Balthier nodded briskly, 'I make no promises,' he warned, 'but I will see what I can do.' He glanced once more at Fran, 'We will make for Archades before the summit with whatever news we have.'

'I am in your debt, then, his lordship as well.' Basch said gravely. Balthier felt his smirk broaden.

'Oh, I shall not leave you in suspense on that score, when I return I will come with the price for my services also.'

Without further ado Balthier swept out of the Cloudbourne with Fran, Vaan and Penelo trailing after like the over-exuberant and excitable tail of a comet.

'So where are we going to look first?' Vaan demanded as they made their way to the aerodrome. Balthier stopped and turned to face the two young would-be pirates. He affixed a grave frown to his face and waited until the over-excitable children stopped fidgeting and began to wither under his quelling gaze.

'Fran and I will make for Nalbina. There are associates of Mary-Belle still living that I wish to speak with.'

Vaan opened his mouth but Balthier forestalled him with a raised hand, 'You and Penelo can do as you wish, but if you insist on 'helping' make yourself useful by finding out what the bloody blue blazes Rikken is playing at. I haven't the time to waste on assassins.'

'Right, you can count on us Balthier!' Vaan assured him confidently while Penelo beamed at him with the radiance of a particularly over-achieving sun beam. Balthier resisted the urge to roll his eyes and merely nodded. The two youths, always rushing somewhere, ran off ahead to their own airship.

After watching the two Rabanastran's departing backs Balthier turned to Fran. Almost diffidently he raised his right cuff and scratched nervously at the drops of dried blood on the white cotton.

'I have been thinking Fran,' he began and she regarded him patiently. When he did not continue she spoke.

'Of what have you been thinking?'

He took a deep breath, 'I have been thinking that perhaps it is time for a change in career. Sky pirating is not what it used to be.' His lips crooked in a wry half-smile, 'I think it is indicative of the fact that we have been in this game too long that the very authority we are supposed to oppose comes to us for help in their hour of need.'

Fran's lips twitched as she shifted her weight habitually from one foot to the other, hip cocked and arms folded across her waist. He thought he saw the ghost of a smile dance in the depths of her irises. 'Indeed what new vocation would you suggest we take instead?'

'I have not the faintest idea.' He admitted with a shrug and then, spying the bag of Snapper scales in their leather pouch strung to Fran's waist he smiled, 'Commercial fishing perhaps? Or mayhaps we should turn our habit of restoring kingdoms and rescuing beleaguered souls to our profit and become professional altruists?'

'Would not charging people for their rescue defeat the object of altruism, Balthier?' Fran queried dryly as they began to walk towards the aerodrome once more.

He laughed, 'Fran please, now is not the time to argue semantics. Can you not see I am plotting our glorious new career?'

'Indeed, it is so? Then I will say no more and leave you and your schemes untroubled by reality.'

Nono was waiting for them and waved cheerfully from the entrance ramp of the Strahl. Balthier, feeling cheerful, waved back as they approached the ship.

'Good, for I have never let reality trouble me in the past.' He met Fran's eyes, a twinkle in his own. For just the briefest of moments he saw an answering twinkle in hers.

'Of that I am well aware.' She murmured demurely as they boarded the Strahl once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Seven: 702 Chantilier's Rest -Uplands**

'A-choo!'

_Balthier stumbled as the force of his sixth consecutive sneeze sent his head jerking forward and almost over-balanced him as he trudged through the slurry of fast flowing liquid mud that had once been a mountain road and now had more in common with a very shallow stream. _

_It had started raining in torrents at least two hours ago and showed no sign of letting up any time soon. Wet, miserable and verging on hypothermic Balthier huddled into his bones, shoulders bowed and hunched and chin tucked down into his chest. If only he could be certain he was travelling in the right direction; that would make his current predicament that little bit more bearable. _

_After endless hours of walking since finding himself inexplicable stuck in the back of beyond, Balthier had been able to ascertain that he was still in chantilier's Rest and in fact was somewhere in the rugged, green shrouded mountains and hills of the island that had seemed so picturesque from the sky and were anything but when one found oneself lost in their midst. _

_After a short while spent cursing his blasted luck and turning in a circle Balthier had decided that returning to civilisation was simply a matter of walking in a roughly downward gradient and then, all things being equal, he should find himself back in Cahahouli Bay. At least this was the theory he had been working from for the last handful of sodden hours. Now, as the heavy and over-laden clouds darkened into night, he was forced to consider that initial premise very shoddy indeed. _

_A rocket of lightening streaked across the heavy, thunderous sky and Balthier stopped walking to look up as the clouds rippled with light and rocked with noise._

_Rain water seeped along his scalp and down his neck, winding through the roots of his hair and streaming down past his collar. His shirt was plastered to his torso and arms and it was lucky that he favoured tight tailored trousers to begin with as there was little room for further, water related, shrinkage of the leather. _

_Still it was equally fortunate he had never planned to father children because if his trousers did begin to shrink he could foresee some rather painful and awkward consequences of his less than stellar sartorial choices and current predicament. _

_The Landis Phoenix, utterly useless in the downpour, was wedged under his right arm. It was a heavy, slick, weight pinned against his side which only added to his general sense of discomfort and irritation. Stopping once more as he trailed down one endless slope only to hide himself at the peak of another Balthier shifted his weight in his water-logged boots and re-positioned the Phoenix under his arm._

'You look lost, stranger.'

_He was in motion before the more civilised regions of his brain recognised the words spoken to him in a low, friendly, and female voice coming from the direction of the tree line across the road. In less time than it took to recall the event Balthier had a flintlock pistol pointed at the woman who stood in the shelter of the trees and his finger securely snug over the trigger. _

_The Landis Phoenix, unheeded, began to sink into the slurping mud and slurry of rain water run-off at his feet. The object having fallen from Balthier's hands when he went for the antique pistol he had pilfered a while ago from an antiques store because he liked the look of it and kleptomania was a bad habit actively encouraged amidst his peers. _

_The woman, whose accent was Archadian by acquisition and not birth, had the olive complexion and dark coiffed hair of a Chantilier native and wore dark, conservative travelling clothes that nevertheless spoke of expense in the construction and cut. She appeared to be in her middle thirties and she carefully raised both hands in the universal gesture of non-aggression, smiling thinly._

'I didn't mean to startle you.'

_Balthier said nothing in response nor did he lower his pistol as he regarded the woman through narrow eyes; the rain continued to sheet down his cheeks and drip off the frozen end of his nose. There was something alarmingly familiar about this woman but he could not quite place it._

'That's a fine pistol you have there,' _the woman continued moving forward one step at a time but kept her hands up where he could see them._

'Don't see many people with pistols these days; rifles all the way with most folks who favour guns.'

_Another step forward as Balthier watched her steadily, finger still resting on the pistol's trigger and the nose of the gun pointed smoothly at her high forehead. The woman's smile was a little too affable, her manner a little too genial._

'I particularly like the ornamentation, very pretty fretwork.' _The woman took yet another step forward smiling still and speaking in the slow, measured, sweet manner one used to corral rambunctious children. _'Of course duelling pistols don't have much range and the shot is hardly lethal.'

_The woman took one final step, coming out of the cover of the trees completely and out into the rain, which also, incidentally, brought her into the (admittedly short) range of the pistol in his hands. Balthier smiled._

'It is as well then that I have no desire to kill you.' _He conceded matching her tone with as much false cheer as she had shown him,_ 'Still I'll wager that a shot from this would easily shatter bone, or perforate some of your innards should I aim for your stomach.' _He gave her a particularly charming version of his usual disingenuous smile. _

'State your name and business or start running the other way; I care not. I'll warn you only once, come a step closer and I will shoot.' _He informed the strange woman calmly, smiling all the time._

_A flash of something hard and less than friendly flashed across the woman's face for a brief moment before she regained her composure. Balthier noted the lapse and filed it away for further consideration. This woman was very dangerous; he had spent too long among pirates, brigands, and reprobates of all callings not to recognise the signs. _

'Do you always threaten people who try to aid you, young man?'

_The woman attempted to scold and patronise him to hide her previous reaction under a veneer of respectable response. A kindly stranger come to help a lost boy might take the part of aggrieved maternal figure but something about this woman's performance had been wrong from the start._

_Balthier held onto his charming, bright smile and inclined his head just a little in mocking bow. He was secretly worried that if he was required to fire the pistol the spark would not ignite the tinder in this perishing and persisting deluge from above. _

'Always, madam, I find it saves time in the long run and I am such an impatient sort.' _He purred smoothly eyes never leaving the woman's face. The thunder of the rain creating an odd sense of intimacy to this scene as it erased the sounds of the wider world. _

'Also I must point out you have not made me any offer of aid. Therefore I say again who are you and what do you want?' _He cocked the hammer back on the pistol._

_Balthier had been blessed from birth with peculiarly keen instincts, certainly nothing in his early years had required him to develop such instincts for danger as he undoubtedly had, so it had to be natural luck that made him react to some peripheral sense, some flicker of movement, coming from behind and just to the left of him. _

_He twisted, moving the gun from the woman to her male accomplice who sloshed to a stop with the sack raised in both hands ready to fling it over Balthier's own head. There was no thought involved after that frozen sliver of time, no time to react to the sudden flash of recognition as he realised, now that the man had made his presence known, that these two strangers were the same strangers who had posted the wanted bill for Ffamran Bunansa earlier that day. _

_All Balthier had time to do, in fact, was react in his own self-defence. Not trusting the flintlock pistol to fire in the rain he brought the butt down on the bridge of the man's nose with elemental force and spun about in the slippery mud to face the woman as the man howled with pain, nose erupting in blood, and dropped like a stone into the mud. _

_Balthier turned about to face the woman in time to see her hands move in a blur of speed towards her face. For a moment Balthier wondered if she was reacting to what he had done to her partner or if she was, in fact, preparing to cast a spell. _

_There was a sudden sharp, immediate pain in the side of his neck. A hot bright burst of liquid discomfort in the dark stormy, soaking, night that coursed through his adrenalin inflamed veins faster than blood. He clapped a hand to the side of his throat and came away with the tufted edge of some sort of dart. Belatedly he noted that the woman still held a blow gun to her lips._

_Lightening flashed again and thunder rolled. Balthier staggered on unsteady legs as the sky and the tree tops spun above him. A wave of crashing heat burned through his central nervous system and he fell to his knees, sinking into the sucking mud as he fought against the unknown drug robbing him of his strength. _

_Before he could fall face first into the mud and puddles someone grabbed him around the torso keeping him more or less upright; down but not yet defeated Balthier elbowed his assailant in the jaw and was gratified in a vague and floating way to hear the man roar and curse with pain. _

'Careful you fool. The paralysing agent takes time to work. He's a live one this one and we already know he can fight.'

_The woman's voice again, reprimanding the man, and it was the woman who firmly took hold of him, scooping him out of the man's arms and into her own. Balthier was trying to open his eyes and only as he struggled with lids that felt like lead did he realise his eyes had fallen closed to begin with. He heard the clink of shackles a moment before the cool metal bands snapped closed around his wrists. _

'There now,' _There was a note of satisfied triumph in the woman's voice,_ 'that should hold him a while.'

_Balthier barely registered her voice as he was wondering what exactly had been in that dart. He found himself feeling oddly comfortable in a warm, unconcerned way. He could not feel his feet. He could barely feel how wet he was or the weight of the shackles on his wrists. He could not open his eyes or put up any meaningful struggle. All this was to be expected after one has been drugged, of course. The problem came in the fact that despite the severity of his situation Balthier found that he really did not care. _

_If he wasn't either about to be killed or kidnapped and if he wasn't soaked to the bone and shackled in the middle of nowhere with no allies around he would have rather enjoyed the languid, easeful sensation washing through his being. Which was just bloody typical; after a few cautious experiments with various recreational narcotic substances found in the low parts of Ivalice (Aeneas liked to share his bad habits) Balthier had finally found a drug he liked and it was given to him by someone who wanted to do him harm. _

_He barely bothered to try and kick one of his capturers in the shoulder when each took hold of him, one under the arms and the other by his feet, and picked him up off the road. Still the principle of not going quietly into death or slavery was enough for him to infuse the kick with as much feeble strength as he could muster. He heard the woman stifle a cry of pain as she dropped him but did not have time to savour the sound or to capitalise on the situation before the man, who had been holding him under the armpits, hit him with something heavy over the crown of his head. _

_Lightening flashed once more but this time it was entirely in his own head. He sank into a dull, warm, unconsciousness without further ado. _

'Wake up.'

_Of all the ways to come back into awareness being poked with a stick in the ribs was not among Balthier's favourite. He forced his eyes open blearily and regarded his male captor (whose nose was swollen and sore from the crack Balthier had given him with the pistol and his eyes blackened and raw) with narrow and disdainful gaze. _

_The man registered his consciousness and turned away from the bars of his cage. Yes indeed, as he came into fast awareness of his new surroundings Balthier was less than gratified to see that he was in what amounted to a modified beast cage, the sort used to hold large fiends like Bandercouerls. _

'He's awake, Bea.'

_Balthier uncoiled himself with difficulty and found that the square, crate-like metal box he was stuck in was large enough for him to sit up straight with legs crossed. The tender crown of his skull brushed the top of the cage but he could at least sit up and face his captors; under the circumstance he found himself relieved that he wasn't tethered to the floor of the cage by a metal chain about his neck. _

'Who are you and what do you intend to do with me?'

_Balthier tried to demand in his most unruffled and authoritative tone of voice. However his mouth was dry as dust and when he drew breath for speech he ended up coughing. _

_The woman who had set up the ambush and spat the dart at him came towards his cage from somewhere else in the…….wooded clearing?......they were currently residing in. Balthier thought he heard the quiet, distant squawks of a Chocobo and the metallic clanking of girdle and reins. Hmm, so a carriage of some sort was near-by as well. That would make sense as he did not imagine that his captors were intending on carrying him, in his delightful cage, by hand through Cahahouli Bay for all to see. _

'Here we are; a nice drink of water will clear that throat right up.'

_The woman, who her male accomplice had called 'Bea', reached through the bars and proffered a flask his way. Balthier wiped the back of his mouth and swallowed around the dryness in his throat all the while giving the woman an incredulous look. She had to be mad or stupid to think that he would take anything from her. She had shot him with a drugged dart, for the gods own sake. _

'Don't think he wants any, Bea.'

_The man said as he continued to regard Balthier from beyond the bars of his cage with a genially vacuous expression. Gritting his teeth Balthier found himself feeling somewhat like a carnival oddity and he resisted fiercely the reflex to glare or say something unwise in his annoyance at being trapped in a bloody cage and stared at. _

'_Bea' clucked her tongue with all the signs of genuine exasperation. She seemed to view him very much as though he was no more than a recalcitrant child misbehaving instead of her prisoner with very good reason not to trust her or her intentions. She forced her gaze on his and continued to hold out the uncorked flask towards him._

'I know you are far from a fool young man, so I suggest you consider your situation logically.' _She arched an eyebrow insinuatingly._

'There is only water in this flask. If and when I want to sedate you, or otherwise give you some manner of mood altering substance I shall simply do so, or I will cast a spell over you. While you are in that cage you can neither fight effectively nor escape. I have no need for subterfuge. I do not need to drug you through your food or drink.'

_Balthier thought about this. Her point was eminently reasonable and for that very reason he was not about to believe a word she said. This 'Bea' was clearly in charge of this little kidnapping escapade and he had already pegged her as a dangerous opponent. He needed time to learn more about her if he was to get free of this mess. _

_Bea was watching him keenly and she seemed to see that he would not be mollified by reasonable appeals to his common sense. After all, had their positions been reversed, Balthier would have laced the water with some manner of truth serum and used that exact same argument she had used on him to get his hapless captive to drink the potion. Common sense, and the following thereof, had been the death of many an otherwise sensible person, after all. _

_The woman sighed, _'I'd heard you were stubborn to the point of masochism.'

_She shook her head and let go of the flask. The hide bound bottle dropped with a metallic clank and sloshing sound onto the floor of his cage. _'I'll leave it there. Try not to die of de-hydration. A side-effect of what I dosed you with earlier is a fierce thirst. Whether you believe it or not your safety is our first concern.'

_Balthier frowned and pursed his lips against the desire to make some manner of cutting retort. He was almost itching to make demands, to find out from whom she had heard it that he was 'stubborn to the point of masochism' but he held his tongue. He knew well that she was trying to provoke him into speech, though he did not know to what ends. _

_Bea's male accomplice, who had been silent throughout this exchange, obviously decided to try his hand at a conversational gambit of his own._

'Perhaps introductions are in order?' _He queried in that insidiously good humoured manner that Balthier knew he was fast going to grow to hate. _'I am Herriman Lucan Filpot and this is my wife Beatrice.'

'Filpot?'

_The word was out before he could choke it back, but the surprise was just too great. Filpot? What sort of self-respecting bounty-hunter (for surely that was what the pair were) would call themselves 'Filpot'? It was hardly the sort of appellative that would strike terror into the hearts of fugitives and wrong-doers throughout Ivalice, was it now? _

_The man, who was dressed in conservative and non-descript Archadian style, smiled but it was hard to tell if there was a little triumph in that smile to have startled Balthier into speech or if he really was merely a happy idiot. _'Indeed. Herriman and Bea, that's what you can call us. We'll call you Ffamran.' _His smile widened. _

_Balthier gave him a droll look. It was hardly a shock that this man and his peculiarly sinister wife should know precisely who he was. He had seen them putting up wanted posters with his birth name and likeness on them after all. Therefore despite the myriad questions thundering through his faintly aching skull he kept his mouth shut and his thoughts and feelings hidden from the Filpots' (gods but he hoped that was an ironically chosen alias) avaricious regard. _

'Still not talking?' _Herriman Lucan Filpot sighed with a theatrical flourish and Balthier watched the man with barely concealed contempt. He was disgusted that he should have been entrapped by this amiable half-wit. _'Perhaps this will get a peep out of you?'

_Filpot (a name Balthier could equate to the man more easily than the woman) held a velum envelope between his fore and index fingers of his right hand. The envelope had a genuine red wax seal and the mark was as recognisable to Balthier as it was an unwelcome sight. It was the crest of House Bunansa, which consisted of a turreted tower and a large bird whose species was a mystery to all, but which some scholars suggested was supposed to be a Phoenix. Balthier, privately, had always thought it was a bloody hideous family crest. _

_Not wanting to look at the envelope or consider what might be inside Balthier studied Filpot more closely both as distraction and to see what he might learn. The man was in his late thirties or early forties with short cropped bushy dark hair. His face had that leathery, expressively creased quality that was less to do with age and more to do with natural selection and his skin had a thick, waxy quality to it. _

_Herriman Lucan Filpot was easier to read than his wife. A native of Archades as Balthier was himself, Filpot had the powerful build, hidden under his deliberately understated attire, of a military man. His speech and manner suggested he was one of the old blood Ardents. A man who would never be Gentry but had risen as far as Archades' bizarre meritocracy would allow. _

'Your father wanted you to have this, Master Bunansa.' _Filpot presented him with the envelope through the bars of his metal box but Balthier made no move to accept it. He was too busy thinking. _

_As a child of the Imperial Capital and, more to the point, as a child born to one of the premier families of the highest strata of Archades society, Balthier had been taught to read the social nuances of the various Archadian classes the same way other children were taught to recognise the alphabet. Filpot had all the hallmarks of a former career soldier, quite high ranked if Balthier was any judge but, and here was the rub, Filpot was a soldier and _not _a Judge. It was a slim difference, especially in the higher echelons of both vocations, but it was an important one. It might be something Balthier could use, as a former member of the Judiciary, to his advantage. _

'Come now, young master, an envelope cannot hurt you.'

_Filpot continued to wave the envelope at him with that blandly engaging smile. Balthier continued to glare levelly at the man. He could name six poisons that could have been mixed into the paper pulp that made the envelope that could kill a man in a minute flat. Still Filpot's hand was uncovered, no gloves, and the same poisons that could kill him would kill Filpot. This seemed to suggest that the envelope itself was not a trap. _

_Knowing that the content of the envelope could be far more dangerous to him than any poison in existence, Balthier still snatched the thick velum paper from the man. It was heavy, containing not a letter but something thicker, heavier, and smaller; it did not fill the envelope completely. _

'Go on and open it, master Bunansa. Your father was very insistent you be given this once we managed to rescue you.' _Filpot continued to smile at him unerringly. _

'Rescue me?'

_Balthier had no time to berate himself for another verbal slip up as at that moment his hands finished the automatic process of upending the envelope so that what was contained within came out into his waiting palms. _

_It was a small, round, enamelled miniature portrait. The palette was muted, watery shades of murky greens, browns, greys, blues and dull white. A man beamed out of the painting as he proudly held aloft the swaddled form of a chubby, bald baby who reached out ill-shaped arms towards the older man, face contorted into an enthusiastic, if inexpert, approximation of the man's broad grin._

_Etched into the top of the painting, forming an arc over the wholesome imagery of doting father and beloved offspring, was an inscription, no more than their two names and the name of the artist and the date; 685 o.v. _

_Balthier almost snorted with dark amusement; he would have been a year old at the time of the painting, which made sense at least. Balthier's birth had been as ill-starred as they came. Born breach, he had been premature and far too small, and to add insult to injury his mother had died of a massive haemorrhage before she could so much as hold him. The baby Balthier had been had spent his formative months too sickly to pose for portraiture and his father would not have wasted the Gil on a portrait of an infant that might not survive in any rate. _

_Belatedly Balthier became aware of the intense scrutiny of his two kidnappers, the unfortunately monikered Filpots. He closed his fist over the palm sized miniature that he had never seen before until this day. The rounded edges dug into his palm for a second, and then he dropped the picture back into the envelope and pushed it through the bars towards the Filpots. _

'I have seen enough thank you. You may take it away.' _He addressed both of his kidnappers imperiously when they continued to just look from him to the envelope oddly expectantly. Tentatively Bea took the envelope back. Balthier had the impression his reaction had not been what either Filpot had expected._

'You are not denying you are Ffamran Mid Bunansa?'

_Balthier shifted awkwardly. He had precious little space and could not stretch his legs. His knees were cramping as he had no choice but to remain sitting cross legged inside his cage. His lower back was a smouldering aching mass as he struggled to maintain the proud carriage and posture he was famed for even in these less than edifying circumstances. _

'There does not seem any point in denying it. I can neither conclusively prove nor disprove I am, or am not, Ffamran Mid Bunansa.'

_He pointed out with crisp logic pleased to be able to turn the tables on the peculiar Filpots. He smiled thinly with brittle charm, '_I rather suspect that whatever I say or do you will continue to believe I am Ffamran so I may as well save my breath, hmm?'

_The Filpots exchanged sharp, curious looks with one another before Herriman Filpot turned bright, almost excited, eyes towards him once more, _'Ah, but what is it _you_ believe? Do you believe you are Ffamran Mid Bunansa or do you believe you are this brigand Balthier?'

_Balthier, who had never believed himself to be any sort of brigand, blinked in surprise, _'Excuse me?'

_Herriman Filpot curled his large fingers around the bars of Balthier's cage and leaned forward as he knelt on the grass on the other side._

'This is much better than we thought, Bea.' _He said in a genuinely excited, happy tone of voice as he briefly turned to his alleged wife, _'I thought for sure he would react with violent denial when confronted with his true identity.'

'My true identity?'

_Balthier found himself more than a trifle alarmed by the direction this conversation was taking (and the fact that the Filpots were discussing him as if he was not in fact right in front of them) as well as the sudden certainty he had that the Filpots were not quite the bounty-hunters he had first thought they were._

'Would you care to tell me precisely what it is you are talking about and what, exactly, you have been hired to do?' _He inquired in a tone of voice that had been known to make even Remus stop and think carefully before he spoke. _

_Both Filpots turned back to him and Herriman was still grinning inanely. Bea looked somewhat saturnine but there was a certain almost fanatic dark light in her sultry eyes that set the hackles to rising on the back of his neck. Suddenly Balthier was keenly aware (not that he hadn't been before) of how vulnerable he was trapped like a domesticated couerl inside this huge metal barred box. _

'You don't need to worry about a thing, master Bunansa,' _Herriman Filpot told him with that same bluff good cheer and heartiness, _'Your good father has elicited our services to restore you to your wits and return you to your natural station in life. We will rid you of the malady of the mind that has afflicted you and bring the pirates who abducted and corrupted your senses to justice.'

_For a handful of seconds, as the Filpots watched him with the bright, glazed eyes of happy lunacy, Balthier thought that he had actually forgotten how to breathe. It was not prudence or suspicion that prevented him from speech but instead uncomprehending disbelief. The gears of his mind, always turning, ground to a screeching halt. His lungs burned from oxygen depletion and his head spun. _

'What? My father hired you to do what?'

_Hardly polite the question escaped on a huge wheezing gust of breath and Balthier began to choke on the subsequent inhalation. This had the fortunate side-effect of obliterating from his hearing the equally insane answer the Filpots attempted to deliver. _

_Still struggling against a dry and burning throat and a pair of lungs that had forgotten how to function correctly Balthier accepted the flask when it was proffered to him and drank from it deeply. It was actually a relief to him to discover that he had been right all along - the water was laced with a powerful sedative - and he slumped over onto the floor of the cage before his mind had quite come to terms with the outrageous and sublime ludicrousness of his situation. Of all the possible courses of action open to Balthier at the time, passing out seemed the most logical solution. He rather hoped that when he woke up again he would discover this whole episode had been nothing more than a very odd dream. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Eight: 707o.v: En-route to Nalbina**

'They learn well, the children do,' Fran murmured as the radar picked up the Galbana, Vaan and Penelo's newest airship, attempting a stealthy pursuit of the Strahl. Balthier clucked his tongue in mild irritation.

'Hmm, anyone would think they did not trust my word.' He contemplated playing a little game of tag with Vaan, just to keep the boy on his toes (as well as teach him a lesson - Balthier did not appreciate being followed) but decided to be gracious and forgo such dubious pleasures.

'What should our heading be?' Fran queried mildly. Although he had stated in the Cloudbourne that he and Fran would make for Nalbina Fran had known all along that he had had no intention of actually going there. Balthier had not set foot nor weighed anchor in the territory of Dalmasca since the whole Lemures mess had been resolved. He steadfastly intended to maintain that record now as well.

He had heard it said that avoidance was both a coward's way and, at best, only a temporary solution to a problem; Balthier tended to view the people who said that as quitters, one could maintain a policy of avoidance for a considerable amount of time if one played his cards right. Although it certainly helped when the object of said avoidance was prevented from giving pursuit via the obligations she owed her newly restored kingdom.

He heaved a sigh, 'Nalbina, if we deviate to any other course we'll never be shot of the little brats. This way we might actually convince Vaan to go off and find his own entertainments.'

'This I know,' Fran glanced sideways at him with one brow hiked up, 'I refer to our true objective.'

As the Strahl sailed easily through a fluffy drift of cumulus clouds and out the other side into the blinding blue of the midday sky Balthier acknowledged Fran's point with a slight nod of his head and a wave of one hand, 'Fair enough, Fran. I want to root out Hamish, find out what's really afoot.'

Fran nodded, 'Know you where the Phoenix is?' her tone strongly suggested she already knew the answer and would not appreciate either evasion or deception from him.

'I'm not sure,' he glanced across at her as he tapped in a little coded message to Vaan through the communication relay system and picked up speed, 'Yes, I know, that is not a definitive answer, Fran, but before you become suspicious let me remind you that when I lie I am always definite.'

They had been in the air for something approaching four hours and the Strahl now glided above the rough and craggy hills and pastures gone to seed of northern most Nabradia headed due south toward Nalbina.

The northern most regions of the fallen kingdom had survived the Nethicite detonation that had wiped out Nabudis and thoroughly corrupted the surrounding landscape down to Nalbina and the Salikawood. Despite this the collapse of all system of government and the eradication economic heart of the kingdom had simply condemned northern Nabradia to a slower, much more protracted but no less harrowing, demise.

Balthier had witnessed the direct aftermath of the Nethicite bomb. He had watched the citadel of Nabudis burn. He would always remember the charred corpses and the gurgling screams of the dying and perhaps because of that (more than any sense of familial guilt he felt for the destruction of Nabudis) it was hard for him to set foot in any part of Nabradia now. It was not the Deadlands that truly disturbed him or even the Necrohol; the Banshees and the Baknamy were nothing compared to the raw horror he had lived through directly after the explosion. Instead it was the nominally still living parts of Nabradia that twisted a knife in his guts.

He had seen the walking dead before, fought the undead in fact, but looking into the eyes of the villagers who still clung to their old farmsteads in northern Nabudis or speaking with the once proud Nabradian horse-traders was so much worse. These were not dead men and women walking, instead these were men and women who knew they were the last link in a very old and broken chain. There was such desperation in their eyes, desperation to preserve a way of life that was already obsolete; living men and women in a dead kingdom.

Fran's clawed fingers tapping on his hand that had clenched around the steering lever reflexively jolted him back from his thoughts. Her eyes on him were cool and filled with, not precisely understanding, but instead knowledge. She knew where his thoughts wandered to. He smiled thinly.

'Apologies Fran, I must be getting old, my mind wanders.'

'Nabudis is not your shame to bear.'

Her voice was soft but it held a note of curiosity, not for the reasons why he felt such a personal pain at the state of the land they now flew over, the Strahl ghosting over former fields gone to seed and villages fallen into disrepair for the people had all but fled for greener pastures, instead she wondered what it was he thought he could do about it.

'I know Fran,' he adjusted their trajectory and was gratified that Vaan and Penelo had not followed them this far but instead turned off either back east towards Balfonheim or off to wherever they pleased.

'What was done cannot be undone, your father's crimes can ne'er be retracted, nor any act of contrition by you gain him redemption.' She continued speaking the words as if by rote, and well she might do the times she had said them already since that day far from here when the most important man in Balthier's entire life faded from existence once and for all.

'And neither would he wish to be redeemed nor acknowledge himself guilty of any crime; I know all this Fran, we have spoken of it often.' He pointed out patient but at the same time unhappy with the conversation.

'Then why for these thoughts, Balthier?' Fran almost demanded as they canted westward taking a wide berth around the ruins of Nabudis where the Mist was still potent enough to make flying over the jagd difficult even with Reddas' skystone still equipped.

'I speak not only of the ghosts that haunt you but of the secret thing I see behind your eyes, there since Lemures; you are making ready for something and feel it does as if a stranger waits to take your place. No longer am I sure of your actions or your thoughts.'

Balthier frowned turning his head completely to meet the almost accusatory stare Fran was giving him, 'Fran if this is about that night in Dorstonis,' he began exasperated, 'then I assure you I shall not drink so much in future. It will not happen again.'

Fran's eyes narrowed, an outrageous amount of expression to so allow herself, or perhaps she was too annoyed with him to control the reaction? The thought cooled his own irritation and gave him pause.

'Symptoms only,' Fran almost scoffed, derision snapping her tones perhaps only so that he, a skilled and practiced audience of her every word and deed could hear, but still, Fran's composure was cracking. 'I knew him not, but sense I do that his presence is with us more and more, I fear that I shall be with you not so long now.'

Balthier blinked and it was only a warning chirrup from the Strahl's control console that alerted them both to the fact that he had accidentally been bearing down too hard on the steering levels and pushed the Strahl to too low an altitude. Jerking his attention back to his ship and what his body was doing while his mind floundered in stunned confusion he corrected their altitude while Fran returned to her neglected tasks also.

'Fran?'

She shook her head sharply, hair whispering over the back of the chair as she did so. He could not remember a time he had seen her so agitated and was at a loss to know the cause. 'He is ready to jump and know enough I do to know that _he_ does leave that which reminds him too much of what he chooses to abandon.'

'Who, who is this _he_? Fran I have no idea what you refer to.'

She turned to look at him and where moments ago he had seen fire in the depths of her eyes he now saw a blinkered sadness; Fran was mourning and he had the absolutely terrifying suspicion that it was _he_ whom she mourned.

'He was but merely your shadow, when first we met, aware of him I have always been, but only as the wind through tall trees, although I sensed him in the accent of your deeds and dreams, understand him or reach him I could not.'

'Understand whom? Fran we are speaking at cross purposes; I ask again who is this other man you refer to?'

Automatically and without either of them consciously thinking about it they began the joint task of setting the Strahl on course for landing in Nalbina, descending at a gradual decline as Fran opened a channel to request landing permission at the aerodrome.

'Viera know only the companionship of sisters and Wood. Learned I did that such companionship is only solitude in numbers and that it gave poor succour for the soul,' Fran said softly, in a muted and almost sorrowful murmur her gaze rooted to the control panel before her and her refusal to meet his eyes, even briefly, sent lightning rods of hurt through his entire self.

'I have lost Wood but gained the bitter joy of knowing true companionship and now I fear its loss,' she shook her head the gesture too remote to be viewed as sad, 'better perhaps to have never known such than to face the loss.'

Balthier was not a man to panic; he did not really understand the concept. He had accepted that in life there were certain absolutes that could not be altered or avoided. Death was one of those as was the advent of the unexpected and so he had come to view panicking over unexpected or less than desirable events counter-productive. One would either overcome those unexpected difficulties or one would most likely end up dead, fretting over the injustice of it all, or asking 'why me?' helped not in the slightest and so he had never bothered to waste his time with such.

Of course where Fran was concerned his emotional core tended to make an exception. Panic surged up under his breastbone like acid erosion and he found it momentarily hard to breathe.

'Fran do not leave me.'

The words were lead and heavy grey in the silence of the cabin and he had never been more sincere. At that moment he was completely convinced that he would cease to exist should she leave him. His right hand left the steering lever (the Strahl could have ploughed right through downtown Nalbina for all the attention he was paying to their landing by this point) and hovered in the air between them, his fingers itched to touch her. He did not, it had never been their way, and only recently had he craved her physically – perhaps because he too felt the gulf opening up between them?

The Strahl emitted a high pitch squeal warning him in no uncertain terms that they were going too fast to make a safe docking. Biting back a less than civilised curse he turned back to give his _other leading lady_ his full attention and his right hand went back to the steering lever. He and Fran descended in silence.

It was only once they had docked safely and without incident in Nalbina aerodrome and Balthier found himself unable to move from his seat, hands still curled in vice grip around the steering levers that Fran spoke as she rose from her chair.

'I will not.'

He turned to look up at her silent and grim and met her eyes.

'I will not leave you.'

The shuttered look, enigmatic and somewhat cold, the gaze she used for the rest of Ivalice, did not work on him. He heard the question those eyes asked and knew then how terribly he had wounded her without ever knowing he did so. He still did not fully understand it, but now at least he could see the damage.

He managed a crooked smile, 'I am mightily glad to hear it Fran,' he told her bluffly rising from his seat and ushering her to precede him out of the cabin, 'for there are plans fermenting in my mind that need the both of us to see completed. I have no wish to change those plans so late in the game.'

'Indeed?' Fran arched a brow her tone and stance falling into the familiar pattern of their usual verbal jousts and he saw a lightening of the shadows in her eyes. Strangely it was he who did not feel the will to play to the usual script; she was right, he was ready to jump but not without her.

He did not smile as he came abreast of her by the door to the cabin and reached out to clasp one of her inhumely lovely hands in his, raising it, with solemn eyes and grave intent to his lips. He turned her hand and placed a reverent kiss to the centre of her palm.

'You are wrong Fran,' his lips brushed her smooth, silky and oddly thin and tight skin as he spoke, eyes never leaving hers all the while, '_He_ loves you well, we both do, and there are some things a man, whatever his guise, cannot bear to be parted with. There is no me without you Fran, and I would not wish there to be.'

Fran cocked her head to the side and regarded him curiously making no attempts to withdraw her hand from his. 'Well enough,' she said after a moment a flicker of amusement heating her gaze, 'so you intend to restore yourself to yourself once more, tis so? Your father is dead and there is no further need to hide from yourself: _Ffamran_.'

Balthier winced and released Fran's hand with a theatrical shudder, 'Fran please,' he grumbled in aggrieved voice gesturing for her to lead the way, 'do not use that name. It is such a poor name, with so little poetry to it. I was saddled with it for sixteen years and was heartily sick of it then. Whatever comes with the morrow I shall not be reclaiming _that_ paltry title.'

'But some titles you wish to reclaim?' Fran glanced over to him obviously curious as they walked across the aerodrome landing bay, 'Or perhaps you wish to lay claim for the first time? You grow tired of the life of a pirate, would you now desire a seat in the senate, or perhaps a peerage? Both positions I believe have been held by those of the Bunansa line in times past.'

Balthier chuckled wickedly. Where once the mere whisper of his family name would have made him deeply uncomfortable and the suggestion that he would ever set foot in Archades high society for any other purpose than high larceny would have had him reaching for his gun now the notion had entirely different connotations. A sly grin stroked over his lips.

'Hmm, well I have committed every crime I have any wish to commit and enjoyed all the higher minded iniquities of pirate-hood, politics seems like the natural progression in my own inimitable descent into total moral dissolution, don't you think?'

'And while you pursue the corruption of power what purpose is there for me?' Fran inquired dryly. Balthier's grin grew broader.

'Fran we are partners, I would not accept a position on the senate unless you too were granted that dubious honour. In fact I rather think the robes and hat would suit you.'

Fran gave him a rather droll look, 'We speak of dreams and make-believe. You must survive assassins and the wrath of Basch before you can set your sights on Archades government, Balthier.'

'Fran please, I am perfectly capable of maintaining multiple schemes at the same time.'

Fran smiled, it was just the slightest twitch at the corners of her lips, but like her earlier show of anger it was enough for him.

'Now, I suggest we find the nearest transport craft to Landia, Nono will mind the Strahl and her presence here in the aerodrome will hopefully act as a blind for any suspicious brats and assassins who would intrude on our business, hmm.'

Without further ado they strolled with perfect synchronicity towards the public flights desk; Balthier plotting for the future and Fran waiting to see which way he would jump.

* * *

**One Week Later: Landia, Landis**

Upon reaching Landia and travelling into the backwoods that had been the last known hidey-hole for Hamish and his merry band of malcontent agitators, Balthier had been disgruntled to find that Hamish and his group had long since cleared out. After deciding that his knowledge of the topography of Landis simply wasn't sufficient to make a guess at Hamish' location he and Fran had separated to cover more ground.

That had been a week ago. He was now due to meet Fran at the Flying Duckbill Trout tavern (Balthier still wondered who had come up with such a name – but it amused him anyway) unfortunately, although his search for Hamish had delivered nothing but frustration Balthier had not been lacking for company. Apparently the bill for his assassination had been widely posted and there was no shortage of takers.

For the last five days he had played a complex game of hide and seek with a knife throwing south Naldoan Islander with a penchant for firaga spells, had managed to get the woman with the garrotte arrested in a convenient case of mistaken identity and had, up until this very eve, avoided any altercation with the fisherman and his harpoon.

Now said decidedly unfriendly seafarer was lying at his feet, handlebar moustache terribly mussed and his heart blood pumping from the puncture wound in his chest. The man's harpoon, shaft broken, lay in two pieces beside his body and Balthier was left watching the man bleed out wondering if there was anything he could have done to avoid this outcome. He had never enjoyed killing, even in self-defence, and always believed any occasion when he was forced to take a life was a personal failure.

He should never have tried to keep the appointment with Fran when he knew the man was following him. Had he stayed hidden the man would still be alive, he wouldn't have a body to conceal and Fran would have fast worked out what had happened and found him out anyway.

Balthier sighed; this was just another example of how sick he was of this life. Once he used to enjoy the cerebral thrill of intrigue and double-cross, now it just made him tired.

A flicker of movement at the mouth of the alley he had ducked down in a failed attempt to escape the man with the harpoon had him spinning to his feet and trying to hide the drawn katana, still smeared with the man's blood, behind the line of his body. A woman's dark silhouette filled the alley mouth; the faint illumination from the crystal lamp strung from a roof eave of one of the buildings opposite the alley mouth highlighted the copper brightness of her thick hair.

'Ffamran, is that you?'

His breath caught in his throat in visceral shock and he tightened his grip on the katana; he knew that voice.

The woman started walking down the alley, caution in her step and the pose of her body suggested that she was craning her head forward and squinting to make him out in the shadows at the end of the alley.

'Ffamran Mid Bunansa, is that you? I know someone is down there, I can see you, please speak up.'

That voice sent adrenaline shocks dancing through his nerve endings and he gritted his teeth. The voice itself was not unpleasant, in fact she sounded rather girlish and sweet, her accent his own and her diction cut glass perfection in the way only an Akademy graduate could aspire to.

There in lay the rub and the reason Balthier's mouth was dry and his tongue heavy between his teeth. He knew that voice, though he had never thought to hear it again, nor expected to. It was a voice from his past, a memory that had everything and nothing to do with all he had run from and he wondered, had he conjured her up from the depths of that forsaken past with his talk of a return?

As the woman moved unerringly further into the shadow with him he could more easily pick out her features, the blurry milk pale blob of a face framed by a thick mane of hair that appeared to be an indeterminate shade of pale brown in the darkness but which he knew was vibrant brandy fire in the sunlight. He could not see her eyes but knew them to be wide spaced and sparked with emerald.

'Ffamran?' a quaver of uncertainty coloured her voice as she groped with fumbling hands at the darkness a few feet away from him. Hearing that voice speak his old name in tones approaching fear brought back memories of her screaming at him, begging him not to go, not to do what he had always intended to do. It was the memory that forced his tongue.

'Anna,' he said, 'Anna Zaagabaath.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: 702 – stuck in a hell of introspection**

_Ffamran chewed on his sleeve cuff nervously as he sat in the back of the sky cab. His feet did not reach the floor as he sank uncomfortably into the plush, crushed velvet upholstery. Through the tinted glass of the window Ffamran could see the tall pinnacle towers that made up the inner most sanctum of the Imperial city Archades drift by, as if floating. Sucking on the thick embroidered cuff of his best jacket Ffamran slunk down even lower in the chair; he wanted to go home. He wanted Nanny Penpo but she was back in Highgarden Terrace as father had said that she could no come with them today. _

'Don't eat your clothing son; that is not the purpose of such apparel.' _His father's admonishment floated over the top of the broadsheet newspaper obscuring his face but Ffamran did not wonder how his father could see through the paper because he already knew his father knew everything there was to know about everything instead he simply withdrew his sleeve from his mouth._

'Sorry Father,' _Ffamran did not ask his father where they were going or why he had to dress in his best clothes and leave his beloved Nanny Penpo and his toys and books to ride in a sky cab through the city. He was a good boy and good boys did not burden their fathers with frivolous questions. _

_Because he did not like the view Ffamran did not look out of the window as they passed over the city and instead began to pluck at the tall white socks he wore drawn up to his knees where his short trousers reached down. _

_He did not like the socks at all. They were too tight and pinched around the back of his knees making his skin itch. At home he was allowed to wander about bare foot (at least when father wasn't home) or he wore loose fitting, cotton trousers that reached past his knees. This was not the fashion for gentry sons but he infinitely preferred those clothes to the ones his father had insisted he wear today. _

'Ffamran really, must you fidget so?'

_His father's voice accompanied by the rustle of paper as he lowered the newspaper to peer reproachfully over at his son startled Ffamran and he looked up guiltily from where he had been scratching under his sock. _

'Sorry father.' _Ffamran folded his nervous hands in his lap and sat up a little straighter. _

_He did not want to disappoint his father, he saw him so rarely, and he was afraid if he did something to displease his father now then he would never be taken on another outing again; not that he minded that precisely, all his toys and books and Nanny Penpo were at home after all but still the desire to please his father was the greatest force that impacted on young Ffamran's life._

_Cidolfus Bunansa regarded his six year old son over the top of his half-spectacles amusedly. After a moment he set his newspaper aside and opened his arms to the pale, anxious boy who sat staring back at him, eyes large and full of all the questions he was clearly desperate to ask. _

'Come here Ffamran, before you start eating the upholstery.'

_Ffamran did not need further enticement and scrambled eagerly off his seat to his father's lap. He curled himself gratefully into his father's solid embrace and resisted the impulse to start chewing on his sleeve again. It was a habit he had picked up in the last year and Nanny Penpo kept trying to break him of, but with limited success so far. _

'I suppose you are wondering where we are going, hmm, son? And why I dragged you away from your puzzle pieces and your story books.'

_It was a source of great joy to Cidolfus that Ffamran was prodigiously bright for a child of his tender years. His vocabulary was vastly superior to most six year olds (a visiting colleague from Draklor had remarked jokingly that the words that tripped of Ffamran's tongue were larger than he was) and Ffamran could read at a level almost five years his senior. His grasp of the basic principles of mathematics was equally advanced and Cidolfus had already had to fit a lock to his home study because there was not a mechanism elsewhere in the house that his son had not attempted to dismantle and re-configure already. _

'No father,'

_Ffamran's prompt, succinct answer surprised Cidolfus who frowned. _'No? That is a trifle hard to believe son, I cannot imagine why you would not be curious.'

_Ffamran grew awkwardly still in his father's arms and an expression of acute discomfort passed over his oval face. Cidolfus rather thought that there was a lot of his mother, Ezria, in Ffamran's features but everyone else of their acquaintance insisted Ffamran was the very image of Cidolfus himself. _

'Curiosity is vulgar father,' _Ffamran said in a quiet voice his gaze seeking refuge upon the floor of the cab._

'Who told you that?' _Cid was genuinely surprised to hear such blasphemy from his son, certainly he would never fill his boy's head with such twaddle. Curiosity, ingenuity and the desire for knowledge were the only things that separated civilised man from mere savages. _

'Master Lydon, father.' _Ffamran told him looking up with a keen regard, perhaps sensing his father's bemusement, _'Master Lydon said I asked too many questions and it was not dignified for a gentleman's son to do so.' _A tiny spark of impish defiance danced across Ffamran's expression, _'I think he said that because he did not know the answer.'

_Cid chuckled, _'Yes I rather suspect you are right son. Hmm, perhaps I shall have to see about replacing Master Lydon. I am singularly unimpressed if the man I have employed as my son's primary tutor denounces the pursuit of knowledge as undignified.'

_Ffamran nodded his head, seeming much happier now, _'Yes do, father, I do not like the man and Nanny Penpo is much more knowledgeable than he. Can she not be my tutor once more, as she was when I was small?'

_Cid's lips twitched up at the corners to see the incredibly earnest but ever so slightly conniving look his son was giving him. Cid had received more than a few raised eyebrow looks when he had commissioned a Moogle as a nanny for his only child but Cid had found no reason to regret the decision. However it had come to his attention that perhaps his son needed to spend more time with his own race before he became confused as to his species. Cid doubted that there were many other hume children whose first spoken word was 'Kupo'. _

'We shall see son, we shall see.' _He gave his son a little squeeze, _'Now let us return to the purpose of this trip. I think it is time, and you are old enough now, to meet your mother and your brothers.'

_Ffamran blinked, _'Mother?'

_Ffamran of course knew what a mother was, just as he knew that he did not have one. The loss did not affect him, and in fact he did not feel any sense of loss at all, it was simply a fact of his happy insular existence that he had a father who he worshipped and a Nanny who he adored and a number of household servants who formed the backdrop of his life and that, for Ffamran, had always been sufficient. The concept of a 'mother' was abstract and vague and he did not quite know what to make of it. _

'Yes and your brothers, Hyram and Vassili.'

_Cid watched his child intently. Ffamran absorbed this new information thoughtfully but did not speak. Cid watched with pride as expressions flittered over his son's young, soft features and he wondered what his son's first question would be._

'Father, why do my mother and my brothers not live in Highgarden Terrace with us?'

_It was a painful question, and although Cid had been expecting to tackle that question at some point during the day the bite of old grief still caused his spine to stiffen. _

'Because they do not live at all Ffamran; not anymore.'

_Cid murmured as the sky cab began its descent at the docking point outside of Highhills Cemetery the oldest cemetery in Archades. Mausoleums, elaborate crypts and discreet headstones covered the entire hill top and the surrounding several hundred acres. It had been speculated by those of a macabre mindset that there were more bodies occupying Highhills than there were in the entire Central District of Archades. It was for this very reason that Highhills had been dubbed the 'bone city'. _

_Ffamran was still absorbing his father's words, _'Oh,' _he said eventually,_ 'I suppose that is a good reason then.'

_Cid swallowed down a laugh. Out of the mouths of babes, he thought ruefully. He had been worried that taking his son to the Bunansa crypt would upset the boy, now he realised that a six year old had no concept of either death or grief. As intelligent and perceptive as Ffamran undoubtedly was he was still only a child. A child who had never known the love of his mother the way Cid had. _

'Come now son,' _He held out his hand to help his little boy out of the sky cab, the high imposing white marble walls of the Highhills cemetery before them, the intricate wrought iron gates open under the crisp blue sky. Together hand in hand, father and son walked through those gates to go and visit the dead…………… _

_Balthier's eyes shot open, his heart hammering in his chest so fast and furious he actually wondered if the organ would palpitate itself to bits inside the shell of his ribs. He was drenched in sweat as he came back to the present and an awareness of his eighteen year old body once more. As his vision cleared of the last vestiges of memory and illusion he found himself face to face with his tormentor, the female Filpot. _

'Back again Ffamran?' _Beatrice Filpot asked him brightly, her dark eyes piercing as she peered at an ampoule of some manner of liquid substance critically. _'Tell me, what did you see this time?'

_Balthier bit his lip until he drew blood, his mouth ulcerated from the numerous times already that he had reacted in the same way to repress the furious responses that wanted to come blistering off his tongue. Instead he let his aching head hang between his shoulders, his arms clamped at uncomfortable angle by the chains shackled to his wrists and the wall of the carriage he was stuck in. _

_For the last -however many hours or days Balthier had lost count – Beatrice Filpot had subjected him to all manner of psychological tortures, using strange substances injected straight into his veins, infusions that he was forced to inhale or imbibe or otherwise suffocate and judicious misuse of confusion spells to force him back into living memory. He did not understand the purpose of these involuntary strolls down memory lane except that the Filpots, from what he was able to divine, were operating under the misassumption that he was either amnesiac or had been forced to forget his true identity. _

'…..W…why are you doing this?'

_Balthier was not of a weak will or constitution, if nothing else he had proved that at least. He could take a beating with a smile and had come out of Nylous' induction torture with his wits and will in tact, but there was something infinitely more soul-destroying about being dragged back into his childhood, an idyllic time and place lost to him forever, over and over again for no obvious reason._

_The memories were so vivid that he could still feel the warmth of his father's large hand curled protectively around his own and the scent of crisp early autumn on the wind as it whistled mildly through the valleys of headstones climbing up the hill where the forest of crypts and mausoleums crouched at the summit. Balthier was not sure what hurt most, the sense of violation or the pain and heartache that remained once the memory faded and he realised that he was not that happy child anymore. _

_Beatrice Filpots look of sympathy infuriated Balthier as much now as it had the first time. She reached out with a warm, damp face cloth to wipe away the sweat that drenched his face. _

'I don't do this to hurt you Ffamran. All you have to do is renounce the false and foul identity of Balthier and you can return home to your father.' _The female Filpot told him, her voice honeyed zealotry. The same insanity she had been spouting every other time he had asked this question._

'All will be forgiven Ffamran. Your father knows that you were not in your right mind when you helped Hamish Fon Denbak escape execution. You were under the malicious influence of that band of sky pirates; a young man's natural inclination towards radical liberalism corrupted by insidious influence. All you have to do is tell us where those brigands who kidnapped you are and you can go home.'

_Balthier's lip curled in open contempt; the same message over and over again and the same corruption of the greatest decision of his life. His moment of self-discovery and the hardest act he had ever undertaken rendered moot, turned into an act of muddle-minded petty defiance by a foolish, spoiled gentry son. Was that the story Cidolfus Demen Bunansa had put about to absolve himself of the stain of his son's defection, or more chillingly, did his father really believe it?_

_As much as it outraged Balthier that it should be widely believed and profligated in Archades that he was not in fact a man acting against a corrupt system but instead merely a brain-washed toff, it was the craven childish relief that lurked deep inside him that truly made his blood boil. There was a part of him still, it seemed, that could not bear the thought of disappointing his father. A part of him that was relieved his father did not hate him. _

_He had thought when he left Archades almost two years ago that he had closed that chapter of his life, brought to a premature conclusion once and for all the life of Ffamran Mid Bunansa when he accepted the name 'Balthier'. He wondered now if he had needed to believe things were so final to give him the courage of his convictions; could he still justify his actions knowing that his father still loved him in some fashion? _

'I have no….idea…..of whom you are….referring to…' _He gritted out between his teeth for the umpteenth time in this long and unpleasant game they played. _

_Going back was not an option and he did not want it to be. Not only because he had run from much more than just his father's domineering madness but because he was not Ffamran anymore and Ffamran's devotion to his father was not a part of who Balthier was supposed to be. _

_He also had to admit that another reason he had no choice but to endure this psychological torment was that he would not betray Remus or the rest of Remus' people._

_It was not any great loyalty to Remus that prevented him from handing the man over. He had always intended to betray the pirate, but not to the Empire and not if it meant betraying himself as well. Everything he had done to escape Archades would not, and could not, be erased. He had left his home and his father because neither was what they had been when he was a child. The dream had become a nightmare and he had to remember that even as the undertow of those halcyon memories threatened to wash all that very real pain away. _

_Beatrice Filpot sighed in response to his less than confident refusal, sounding only mildly irritated. She had been watching him intently the whole time just as she always did, _'Very well Ffamran we shall have to do this the hard way.'

_Dropping the damp face cloth to the floor of the carriage Beatrice picked up a piece of dark blue cloth and doused it with the contents of the ampoule she had been looking at earlier. With lightning fast reflexes she pushed the cloth against his face. Balthier tried to turn his head away, tried not to breathe in, but with his hands bound there was little he could do to resist or escape as the potion laced cloth smothered him. _

_He knew from previous experience what the noxious vapours would do to him. The scent of dry ice and steel permeating his senses, frozen lightning tendrils crawling over his brain, probing and stabbing at his mind, trying to find weak spots from which to infest his memories. Balthier thrashed against the sensations, against the chains that held him, the back of his head smacking against the wooden side of the carriage. All to no avail however as memory rose up around him like an iced fog. He screamed wordlessly in almost mindless defiance as he was dragged under once more._

………_..Six year old Ffamran held tightly to his father's hands as he was led through the tiered ranks of neat white headstones that rose like square edged teeth from the manicured emerald green lawns. He looked about him with avid interest; he did not feel anywhere near as scared or apprehensive here as he had in the sky cab._

_Falls of golden brown and burnt orange leaves had been piled up in neat stacks by the toiling groundsman and Ffamran almost unconscious strained against his father's hand holding his towards those piles, longing to run into them and play. The balding trees, still burdened with some fiery leaves, which populated the landscape like proud sentries, also captivated his attention. He wanted to climb them, imagining what the view must be like from the tops of the highest boughs, but his father kept a tight grip on his hand. _

'Who lives in those white houses father?'

_He pointed with his free hand up towards the distant rise of the hill where a number of strange structures, which looked like very little houses made all of white, stood gleaming in the sun. It seemed odd to him that anyone would live in a cemetery, but then his grasp of the purpose of cemeteries was minimal. They were a place to put dead people that was about the limit of his comprehension and all he had ever felt it necessary to know until now. _

'Those are mausoleums, Ffamran,' _his father told him and then crouched down until he of eye level with his son, he pointed to one structure in particular, _'Do you see that mausoleum with the steeple roof and the gold orb atop?'

'Yes father,' _Ffamran peered narrowly until he could make out the building his father was pointing at. It was much grander and larger than the others. _

'That is the Solidor Crypt, where our gracious Emperor Gramis' forebears reside.'

_Ffamran nodded, hoping he looked sufficiently impressed. His father stood and continued to lead him along the path up towards that cluster of dead peoples' houses. As they ascended the simple gravestones gave way to long flat raised tombs of granite and marble._

_In places statues of humes in robes with bowed heads stood before those tombs and in others allegorical representations of various abstract concepts, which to young Ffamran just looked like odd shaped fiends, filled the empty spaces between the squat oblong lumps of stone. Ffamran did not like the statues as they made him decidedly uneasy. He did not like the blank carved eyes on the tall statues staring sightlessly down at him. _

_Eventually, not too far below the summit of the hill where the Solidor mausoleum stood, they came to a halt before a pale white rectangular building bearing the familiar seal and crest of the house Bunansa above the big heavy wooden door. The roof was steepled and at the apex of that steeple a carved bird, wings outstretched and beak open on a scream, perched aggressively. Ffamran eyed the stone carved bird with trepidation afraid that it might come to life and those sharp talons come screaming towards his eyes. He ducked his head and looked pointedly at the red and dusty ground, sparsely dusted with grass, before the mausoleum. _

'Here we are son,' _Cid said quietly, _'the family tomb. Fifteen generations of Bunansa's are entombed below in the underground crypt.' _His father confided oddly proudly,_ 'The Bunansa's have been interred here for as long as the Solidor's; that is something you must remember, son. Our dead reside in the loving shadow of our departed emperors just as we live under the beneficence of the living Solidor line.'

_Ffamran did not really understand much of what his father said, but he nodded his head gravely and met his father's intent gaze; _'Yes father.'

_His father wore an abstracted mask upon his face. A complex amalgam of different emotions that young Ffamran did not even know how to interpret let alone ascribe a name to, but they made him nervous all the same. His father was a man of swift changes in mood and grand gestures, he did not talk he bellowed, he did not laugh he guffawed, subtlety and ambiguity were not part of Cidolfus Bunansa's emotional palette. This strange subdued quietness unsettled his child who squeezed his hand anxiously as they stood facing the studded door of the squat white building with the blind eyed and stone hearted bird watching them with marble-coated belligerence. _

_Cidolfus bestirred himself and glanced down and smiled faintly at his boy. _'Well then son, let us go in.'

_Heart hammering and palms sweating Ffamran took a step back as his father let go of his hand to open the doors of the mausoleum. Those heavy tarred and studded wooden doors swung open on well oiled hinges and a rush of stale smelling air ran out of the opening to confront Ffamran. Beyond the opening he could see an empty space of white and mosaic tiled walls and a staircase cut out of a hole in the floor leading down. _

'I don't want to.' _Ffamran took another two steps back as his father beckoned for him to come inside. _'I don't want to go in there.'

_Ffamran knew that dead meant not alive, but he did not really comprehend what it meant to be 'not alive.' What did it mean to be dead? Did it just mean that the dead had to stay in places like this cemetery living underneath these odd pale white buildings while the rest of Archades went about their business a handful of miles away? _

_Ffamran imagined an entire town of dead people milling about right under the hill, directly under his feet. He imagined open market places and stalls, he imagined underground sky cabs and the like all operating in complete darkness never allowed to see the light of day…..and yet, as interesting as that would be, Ffamran suspected that that was not what being dead truly entailed. _

'Ffamran, come now, there is nothing to be afraid of,' _the first threads of impatience wound through his father's speech. Ffamran jolted, that ever present fear of disappointing the father he adored almost made him run to him regardless of his fear, but he did not. The fear of 'the dead' was that great. _

'I don't want to father. I don't want to see my mother and brothers. I like things just as they are. Please father can we go home now?'

_His father's face twisted in anger and he moved to grab Ffamran by the arm, _'How dare you speak so of the woman who bore you? I will not have this foolishness Ffamran, you are not an infant.'

_Six year old Ffamran could not explain the tumult of emotion that brought tears to his eyes (and he a child lauded for the fact that he never cried). Panic clawed at his throat and he trembled, his father's anger, as quick and fierce as summer thunderstorms, was enough to frighten him ordinarily but the white building and its dark subterranean staircase and cruel bird statue scared him all the more. Instinct screamed at him that he did not want to go down there. He did not want to see his dead mother and dead brothers; death was nothing he wanted to experience. Somehow little Ffamran knew that death was something to be feared, not revered. _

_His father's large hand closed about his forearm and jerked him off his feet towards the doorway of the white building, the bird glaring at him from above with pupiless smooth white eyes. The bird's stone talons closing over the edge of the roof sharp as knives and the beak; open on silent screech, vicious as a rapier. _

'No!' _Ffamran screamed breaking painfully free of his father's grip and turning to run blindly down the hill. _

_He did not heed his father calling out to him angrily. He did not heed anything at all as he broke from the path and darted through the serried rows of graves. He did not want to stay in this still, empty, quiet place; this land of the dead where young Ffamran, with all his life ahead of him, had no place or business. The dead had no hold on him and ran as fast as he could to ensure they never would. _

_It was then, running eyes stinging with the tears that never would fall, that he fell into the open grave, left unmarked, and tumbled into the dark head first; the heady scent of fresh turned soil surrounding and enclosing him. He did not have time to scream as he landed hard at the bottom of the grave. _

………_.Balthier screamed again, the sound torn from his throat more in response to the terrible pressure he felt building up around his heart, slamming down against his inflamed mind, then in response to the memory of that disastrous trip to the Highhills cemetery many, many years ago. In the rich tapestry of terrors and thrills he had experienced since then the events of that day had seeped into the hidden regions of his memory, not even consciously recalled until this moment. _

_It was only as he began to convulse, unable to breathe, that he realised that he was no longer chained to the wall but instead lying on his side on the rough boards of the carriage floor. The fact that he was no longer restrained didn't matter greatly as Balthier was too busy choking, limbs going into spasm, to take advantage of the situation. _

_He could hear voices scything into his awareness in the lulls between his screaming blood pounding in his ears. The vibrations of feet clomping towards him over the floor simply verged with the general pain he was in. _

'Gods almighty what have they done to him?'

_Strong hands tried to haul him upright but Balthier could not afford the time to worry about this; breathing was his priority. _

'Drugs, most like,' _a female voice, not Beatrice Filpot but one he thought he should recognise nevertheless, _'a veritable chemical banquet by the looks of it, in fact.'

_Balthier forced his eyes open. Light blinded him in spears of white and red and yellow and he squinted painfully as his breathing normalised and his body stopped writhing uncontrollably. Two faces blurred, and edged in unnatural nimbus haloes of crackling luminance, wavered before his eyes. A young man with a shock of red hair and bright engaging green eyes and a woman, grey just threading through the thick mane of dark hair at her temples and black gimlet eyes as hard and sharp as avaricious death. _

_The woman reached out with a black gloved hand to stroke his sweaty cheek, _'Balthier darling, what a lot of trouble you are.'

_Ruthy smiled in patronising fashion as she trailed her hand down from his cheek to encircle his neck, fingers rubbing over the feverish pulse dancing at his throat. She squeezed down just a little making it hard for him to swallow. The leather of her glove was wet and slick and as always the mind-reeling scent of raw meat and roses filled his nostrils. _

'Now Balthier my dear boy, why don't you tell me what the mean lady has done to you?' _her voice sultry poison honey seeped into his brain like slow draining acid,_ 'and also what precisely you have done with the Landis Phoenix.' _Ruthy smiled wolfishly, teeth glinting as she continued to hold him by the throat._

_Balthier's heart stopped, the whirling reel of his thoughts ground to a halt and he stared in open panic up at Ruthy. The Phoenix; he did not know what had happened to the Phoenix._

_Ruthy licked her lips hungrily her dark eyes keenly aware of every thought that danced behind his eyes it seemed. A low growling chuckle rolled off her lips, '_Oh deary me, Remus will kill you when he finds out, darling. You really are in trouble this time, aren't you?'

_Balthier could not have found the breath to speak even if he had known what it was he could say. Abused memory tried to track down the last moment he remembered the Phoenix being in his possession; a glimpse of an ambush in the rain, the Filpots surrounding him and Balthier reacting with gun drawn, the Landis Phoenix dropping to the muddy ground. He swallowed hard, Ruthy was right; with the Phoenix gone, perhaps lost for good, his life was forfeit. He stared mutely at Ruthy who nodded sagely._

'A-hum,' _she purred, _'Remus hoped you'd come unstuck because of the Phoenix, though he was hedging his bets that Mary-Belle would kill you. I must say I'm disappointed though, I'd hoped you'd be smarter than this.'

_Ruthy let go of his throat to walk her fingers, sharp nails sheaved by the gloves, over his chest. She flicked open the top two buttons of his shirt (his vest ghosted away by the Filpots at some point in his captivity), _'Still,' _she purred meditatively, _'perhaps this situation need not be so dire, after all?'

_Even drugged, ill and severely disadvantaged Balthier was no fool and he recognised the opening gambit for either a deal or blackmail. He swallowed again, _'What do you want?'

_The question was hard to voice and not just because of his general discomfort. Being indebted to Ruthy was not a fate he would wish to enter into lightly, though it looked like his choices were limited. _

_Ruthy smiled triumphantly around a peal of delighted laughter, _'Everything my dear, I want everything; but for now I'll settle for you.' _Her dark eyes rooted to his, hard as nails and tenacious as a behemoth. When she spoke her words were hard as pellets of ice._

'Mind, body and soul, Balthier; I want your devious mind, your lovely young body and, that most precious gift because it is a commodity so few can boast, I want your loyalty. In return I will ensure Remus does not gut you like a trout as soon as he finds you.'

_Her savage smile filled the world, leeching the light from the room until all Balthier could see was that knife-like grin,_ 'All you have to decide, Balthier darling, is whether being mine is preferable to being dead.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven: 707o.v: Landia, Landis**

One day he would simply stop being surprised by the spanners, contrivances and skeletons of past misdeeds that benighted fate kept springing on him with capricious regularity, Balthier promised himself with no little irony as he watched in silent astonishment as the voluptuous red haired woman stepped from the mouth of the alley in one of the less salubrious neighbourhoods of Landia and quick-stepped towards him in expensive suede boots.

Standing in poorly feigned nonchalant readiness, his katana pressed against his right leg and smeared with the blood of yet another assassin trying to collect on the bounty for his scalp, Balthier decided that there was no wise or sensible thing he could possibly say at this moment in time and so chose silence as his shield.

Of all the women in all Ivalice Anna Zaagabaath was the last person he expected to find down a dark alley in the rough end of Landia, but then had he expected it he would have taken steps to make sure he avoided any such meeting.

Anna walked with the easy quick gait that only privilege and a sheltered upbringing could bring one when approaching an armed man in a dark alley and stepping delicately over the corpse of another man. She beamed at him with an irrepressible mixture of enthusiasm and triumph.

'Ffamran! It has been an absolute age.'

She still retained a girlish, breathy but strangely high pitched inflection to her words, almost as if she was in a perpetual state of anxious expectation. She spoke fast, almost tripping over her words in her rush to speak.

'You cannot imagine the trouble I've had tracking you down. I have been in every tavern from here to Archades and to think, all I needed to do was wander down a dark alley.' She laughed high and sweet and almost giddy.

Balthier realised belated as he stared at the woman before him that she was waiting for some manner of response from him. Struggling to organise his thoughts his eyes tracked over her body. Taking in the moon face with the lily pale skin gently dusted with golden freckles and the large blue flecked green eyes, her mane of flame red hair artfully styled atop her head to fall in curling tendrils around her face. She wore fashionable clothing that was nevertheless fit for travel while showing a generous amount of the cleavage she had been abundantly blessed with. Around the stem of her neck she wore a black velvet choker with a gold engraved 'Z' pendent.

'What are you doing here Anna?'

It was not the most pithy, witty, suave – or even polite - greeting but it was at least pertinent. Balthier was also gratified that his voice did not give away any of his stunned unease at being faced with his ex-fiancée after seven, almost eight, years. He was acutely aware of the corpse lying between them as if he had been caught doing something improper – which he supposed he had.

'You remembered my name, I'm flattered.' She cooed and Balthier blinked at the honeyed barb in her tone.

Anna's smile did not lose its serene sweetness but Balthier nevertheless caught the knife bright sarcasm therein and found he was impressed. The Anna he remembered had not possessed any capacity for sarcasm. Of course the Anna he remembered was probably an entity that no longer existed; certainly he bore little resemblance to the boy she had once thought herself in love with all those years ago.

'Ffamran?'

Anna had broken eye contact with him to regard the bloody katana in his hand and the body leaking vital fluids at their feet with a slightly nervous regard.

'Do you think it is wise to be standing here?' she asked hesitantly as if she feared the dead man would leap up and accost her. Balthier almost laughed at Anna's skewed priorities. She clearly had no fear of him, the murderer, but instead was afraid of a harmless corpse. Then again Anna had always trusted him far too much and to her detriment, Balthier was forced to concede to his chagrin.

'Does someone come around to collect the bodies in these parts because I rather think having corpses littering the streets must be frightfully unhygienic.'

Anna queried fretfully and Balthier couldn't completely repress a snort of derisive laughter as her ridiculous question snapped his thoughts into focus; really he had the attention span of a dim-witted insect these days. Anna glanced at him curiously.

'Landia does not actually have a public service for corpse disposal.' He murmured sardonically, although she did raise an excellent point, he really should be quitting this place with some haste.

Anna regarded him reproachfully, and aware of the ludicrousness of his situation Balthier forcibly marshalled his wits. 'Anna what are you doing here?' he reiterated his question.

The query barely covered what he wanted to express as he sheathed his katana (having first crouched to clean off the blade on the dead man's sleeve – it was his blood after all). Sliding around Anna in a wide berth (she did not look either dangerous or armed but he had not lived so long by making assumptions like that) he started walking briskly towards the entrance to the alley.

Anna turned on her heel and followed him and Balthier, healthily paranoid, turned to watch her approach gesturing politely for her to precede him as befit the conduct of a gentleman who does not wish to be stabbed in the kidneys from behind.

'I must say of all the ways I imagined meeting you again this scenario never crossed my mind,' Anna began cheerfully, 'which, when one considers your reputation, was really rather short-sighted of me, I suppose.'

'Anna?' he raised his eyebrows at her when she persisted in not answering the question he had set for her. He had actually forgotten the woman's inhume ability to talk ten to the dozen without the need to draw breath.

She laughed and in an echo of days of yore he would sooner forget impulsively reached out to clasp his left arm in both of hers hanging off him like the love-struck schoolgirl he used to know.

'Anyway, regardless of the circumstances I am so very glad to have finally caught up with you.'

She blithely blithered on looking up at him as he swerved sharply to the right and walked with long strides towards the docks where he was due to rendezvous with Fran. Wouldn't his partner be surprised when he re-appeared after a week of solitary investigation with an ex-fiancée dangling from his arm?

'Really Ffamran you cannot imagine how irritated I was to discover that the _Prodigal Son _had returned to Archades last year and I missed you! I have been absolutely determined to hunt you down since then, and I must say you made it very difficult. First you were assumed dead after Bahamut, then you were floating in the skies of Lemures,' she huffed a sigh, 'well I suppose it has afforded me ample opportunity for travel following _your_ trail.'

'_Anna!' _he used a much belated pause for breath to interrupt the stream of her chatter and she looked up at him with an adorably girlish look of mild reproach upon her features.

'Yes Ffamran, what is it?'

Balthier was forcibly reminded once more as to precisely why their relationship (such as it had been) had been doomed to failure for more reasons than merely his turn to crime and self-imposed exile from their shared mother country. He felt a familiar exasperation building inside him as well as a sort of mental fatigue that set in when forced to listen to Anna Zaagabaath in full prattle for any length of time. Schooling his features into butter bland mildness he kept his voice smooth by force of will.

'Anna you have not explained to me, as yet, precisely _why_ you have tracked me down after seven years and what it is precisely, that you want of me. We did not part on the best of terms, after all.'

The slightest twinkling in her bright green eyes suggested that she knew precisely how confused and exasperated he was.

'You are referring of course to the fact that you promised to marry me solely so you could coerce me into giving you my father's security access codes. Codes you used to break a condemned prisoner out of the Judiciary dungeons, while taking me hostage, and running off with a group of uncouth sky pirates. Those would be the bad terms you are making reference to, correct?'

Balthier resisted the impulse to wince and duck his head like a bashful boy; Fran was going to absolutely love this. 'Yes, those would be the terms.' He agreed in studiously neutral tones.

Anna laughed, the lovely melodious sound rang like the twinkling of crystal bells in the Landia night as Balthier towed her along at a trot headed determinedly towards the dock and the Tavern where he very much hoped Fran was waiting for him. Fran would sort all this nonsense out and save him from his ex-fiancée; at least he hoped she would.

'Oh, Ffamran, that was years and years ago now. I have long since completely forgiven you.'

Balthier stopped in mid-stride and turned to face Anna, 'I locked you in a cell and threatened to sell you into slavery to a group of pirates, you do remember that don't you?'

Anna nodded, 'Yes Ffamran, I suffered nightmares for some eight months after your disappearance.' Her expression hardened, 'Believe me I have forgotten nothing that occurred that night.'

Balthier couldn't quite make himself keep walking. Eight months of nightmares? He rarely let himself dwell on that night, his grand escape from Archades, and he had banished Anna from his thoughts altogether. Now however he was forced to really think about it once more.

There were very few things Balthier was actually ashamed of but what he had done to Anna was one of those few. At the time he had not seen any other option to attain his goals and even now, he did not see how he could have achieved the outcomes he had sought without using Anna – but that did not mean he wasn't ashamed of the necessity.

'If that is true how can you forgive me?' The words were out and resting on the pleasant night air before he had time to recant them.

Standing on the quiet deserted street, the higgledy-piggledy thatched roof townhouses of Landia leaning drunkenly over the street and the faint echoing scent of open drains permeating the cool night air, Balthier and Anna stared at each for a long silent moment before Anna smiled just a little and shrugged daintily.

'What good would it do to hate you Ffamran? It would not change what happened and it would not make me feel any better. It certainly wouldn't have made any difference to you, wherever you had gone, so why would I put myself through that?'

Balthier blinked genuinely surprised. This was a philosophy he realised, that was quite the antithesis to his own. He held many grudges and he held them forever; forgiveness was not a virtue he had in large supply or at all, truth be told (his father could attest to that). In the face of Anna's acceptance he found himself wondering for the first time if his vengeful soul was not a liability, maybe even a weakness. Did he hurt himself by nurturing his hate even now?

'That is very good of you,' he finally conceded awkwardly. Anna smiled a little wider and then snuggled in against his arm.

'I'm not the girl you used to know Ffamran. After you left…..after everything that happened…..all I could do was think over and over again about all the things you said to me.'

'Anna….' He began mildly appalled.

Years of ruthless suppression and self-denial had given Balthier a less than complete recollection of the time immediately before he flew the nest, as it were, and escaped Archades. However he could remember the sense of suffocating frustration and incredibly oppressive misery and futility he had felt in that time. He could well imagine the vitriol and bitter words he might have said back then and repressed a wince internally; what a barrel of laughs he had been as a boy.

'No,' Anna stopped him from speaking any more which was a relief as he had no idea what he might have said. He truly detested feeling guilty; he was just so bad at it.

'It is fine Ffamran. Even then I knew how desperately unhappy you were, even if I could not understand why.' She shook her head, 'A lot of things changed after you left. Archades changed…or perhaps merely my awareness of the way my home truly operated. That night in the dungeons opened my eyes and since then I have been unable to close them to the truth.'

They were walking at sedate pace down the gentle incline of the main street towards the docks; the pier was lit up like a line of twinkling starlight striking out into the deep waters of the river and the faint strains of accordion music drifted over the night air from the tavern.

'The truth is relative,' Balthier murmured feeling obscurely uncomfortable. For all the contempt he held for Archadian society he had never really felt it for the _people_ of his homeland. In some ways he had always vaguely envied them their happy delusions; it had been a bitter pill to swallow when he had realised at sixteen that he could not live amid all that hypocrisy and for a long time he had wished for nothing more than the comfortable lies of his childhood.

'I know,' Anna said sadly her words soft as a mournful snowfall and seemingly echoing his own thoughts. 'I used to believe that Archadia was the greatest civilisation in all Ivalice. I used to believe that what the Emperor and the Senate told us was the absolute truth. I know better now. Archadia is no better than anywhere else.'

Balthier snorted sourly, 'You have obviously never visited Rozzaria.' He opined high-handedly. Archadia might not be any better than anywhere else, perhaps, but he had visited a number of places that were a damn sight worse.

Anna laughed and squeezed his arm affectionately, 'I have actually, and I thought the Ambervale region was lovely.'

She sobered almost immediately and squeezed his arm to get his attention so he would look at her, 'I went to Bhujerba, as soon as I was well enough.'

She looked faintly bashful for just a second under the glow of a hanging crystal lamp along the boardwalk running beside the silty smelling river. 'I went to the university, Ffamran. I suppose in some ways I ended up living your old dream.'

Not mine, some old reflexively defensive inner voice snapped inside Balthier's thoughts, not _my_ dream but Ffamran's; still, as his conversation with Fran a week ago had proved, the false barricade that kept 'Balthier' and 'Ffamran' separated had already begun to fall. The truth was, and always had been, that he was both Ffamran and Balthier and once upon a time he had dreamed of studying aeronautical engineering at Ondore University.

He glanced down at Anna, 'Surely you did not take tuition in flight engineering?' he asked dryly and Anna rolled her eyes.

'No,' something sly shaded across her expression and she tightened her grip on his arm as they approached the tavern, 'in fact I studied journalism.'

'Journalism?' alarm bells had tripped in his thoughts but he could not quite decide why.

'Yes, it is the study of writing for the basis of reporting on factual events in the medium of…' Anna began and Balthier waved a hand to interrupt. He rolled his eyes drolly.

'Thank you yes, I know _what_ journalism _is_.' He looked at her keenly, 'I am wondering what relevance that has to why you have suddenly appeared now….and why you were so intent on tracking me down.'

Journalism and the organised practice of reporting on current events throughout Ivalice was not that widespread although in the new era of international peace newspapers and journals had been springing up in ever increasing numbers. Balthier had the feeling that Anna's profession, while seemingly innocuous, and her suddenly reappearance in his life were connected in a manner he would not much like.

The woman in question was currently grinning at him, suddenly she did not look either sweet or innocently naïve. Something bright and avaricious gleamed in her eyes as she spoke.

'Did you know I was the person who reported on the signing of the intra-governmental peace accord between Rozzaria, Archadia, the newly liberated Dalmasca and Bhujerba, Ffamran?'

Deeply suspicious Balthier regarded her coolly, 'I can't say I did know that.' he admitted carefully as he glanced covertly across the boardwalk to the entrance of the tavern in the vain hopes that Fran would miraculously appear and save him from whatever nasty surprise Anna was about to spring on him.

Despite the utter strangeness of Anna's arrival Balthier had actually caught himself relaxing in her presence. Something about the constant stream of cheerful chatter seemed to act almost like a form of verbal sedation, lulling him into a false sense of slightly stupefied security. Now he felt sure he would pay for that lack of caution.

'Yes,' Anna said still holding his arm in a tenacious grip, which despite the fact that he could physically over-power her without breaking a sweat made Balthier almost nervous. He had a feeling that Anna had a quality of strength to her that had little to do with physicality. 'I am the chief reporter for the Archades Herald……..can you guess what my current assignment is?' she smiled impishly.

Balthier's eyes widened fractionally, surely not, surely he could not be drawing the correct conclusions from her inference? Anna saw the widening of his eyes and no doubt felt his involuntary jolt of surprise and her smile grew all the more predatory.

'Me?'

Anna nodded delightedly, 'You.'

Her grin grew positively garish under the crystal lamps as Balthier stared at her in complete shock. 'Imagine it, the one and only true and entirely exclusive interview with Archades elusive, _infamous_ prodigal son. It will sell millions and make my career, Ffamran.'

Balthier struggled with a vast number of responses in the face of this statement and the brilliant light of pure unadulterated zeal glowing in those emerald eyes. He discarded a number of the more flabbergasted exclamations and decided to fall back on the well worn veneer he wore as an imperturbable and debonair sky pirate (never mind that he spent the majority of his time both perturbed and confused).

'Aren't you being a tad presumptuous?' He cocked an eyebrow, 'Whatever makes you think I'd give such a lucrative confession to you? It seems to me that any number of publications would pay a very pretty Gil to have exclusive rights to _my_ story.'

Anna smiled wolfishly and the expression did not sit well on her girlish prettiness, 'Oh, but those other publications and reporters don't have what I have to convince you to part with your story, Ffamran.' She actually batted her eyelids at him and he frowned dangerously.

'Oh, and what is that, pray tell?'

Anna chuckled, 'They don't have the leverage of guilt to use against you. They can't threaten to write an expose of how you ruthlessly used and broke the heart of a pure, innocent girl to perpetrate an act of high treason. Think about it Ffamran, what would become of the reputation of the ladies man Balthier if your real character became common knowledge?'

He regarded her sceptically for one long moment, 'What became of your earlier acceptance and forgiveness, Anna dear? This all sounds remarkably like blackmail to me.' He purred darkly.

'Why thank you Ffamran dear, from you I shall take that as a great compliment.' Anna smiled winningly, 'And this really doesn't have anything to do with revenge. It is all just business,' her voice hardened, 'as I'm sure it was for you when you twisted my heart around your little finger and tore my dreams to shreds that night in the dungeons.'

Balthier cocked his head to the side and regarded carefully this strange creature before him who retained all Anna's charming softness on the outside but whom had a mind like a razor and the venom to back it up, which the old Anna had never possessed. Strangely enough he found himself fighting the urge to laugh; he found he rather liked this Anna – blackmail notwithstanding.

'Hmm, you make a compelling argument, Anna dearest, but you are also assuming that after all these years guilt has the power to move me. It did not make much odds at the time, if you remember?' he purred dryly. Years of, when one got down to brass tacks, being an absolute bastard had inured Balthier to any guilt over acting the part.

Anna twiddled a curled coil of red hair around one finger as she shifted her weight provocatively from one hip to the other; bizarrely the gesture reminded him vaguely of Fran.

'Think of the damage to your reputation Ffamran. I can see the headline now: prodigal son attempted to sell fiancée to pirates to finance own rise in crime.'

Balthier laughed delightedly, he couldn't help it. He would not mind actually seeing that in print. 'Oh, please do write that, my dear Anna, I have been worried that my name is being unduly associated with respectability of late.'

A flash of annoyance passed through those wide spaced emerald eyes and Anna pursed her lips, 'How about this one then; the truth of the Prodigal Son: a cold blooded killer or freedom fighter – his victims tell all.'

Balthier smiled silkily leaning back against the guard railing facing out across the waters, eyeing the outer façade of the tavern casually as he savoured Anna's words.

'You would have to find a victim first, my dear Ms Zaagabaath. I am good at my trade and any witnesses who can prove I was responsible for their petty woes will be hard to find.'

'Petty woes….?' Anna bit back her instinctive anger in reaction to his deliberately provocative words and Balthier found himself biting his lip in amusement, oddly energised by this exchange.

The Anna he remembered had not had the wit to entertain him, if he was brutally frank, but this new Anna…..well she almost made him regret that he had missed out on the intervening years of her personal evolution.

Anna moved with a deliberate flounce to lean her back against the railing beside him and he wondered if her pose, with arms folded under her amble bosom, was deliberate? Regardless it was most definitely an eye-catching display, especially as her blouse was made of thin material and it was growing a mite chilly.

'Ffamran Mid Bunansa: criminal, traitor, scoundrel – how he callously refused to grant one measly little interview to the woman he once wronged in most heinous fashion. How is that for a headline?' Anna glared at him hotly.

Acting on pure impulse, because he was thoroughly enjoying himself and hadn't had the opportunity to play with a quick tempered woman since he last saw her majesty the lady Ashe, Balthier reached out lazily to tuck a loose curl of Anna's long red hair behind her ear. He absently let his fingertips trail down the graceful stem of her neck as he withdrew his hand, just this side of a caress.

'I shall thoroughly enjoy reading said article; I have not had anything entertaining to read in quite some time.'

He murmured silkily edging a little closer until he could feel the heat of her body radiating through the scant half inch of air between them. He was gratified in the extreme when Anna's breath quickened in response to his lazily lascivious touch; yes indeed, he hadn't had fun like this with a woman since his disastrous dalliance with the princess.

'Very well, if appealing to your sense of honour and decency will not move you,' Anna said stiffly (though he noticed that she shifted that last half inch across the rail until the lines of their bodies met and inclined her hips, ever so slightly coquettishly, toward him), 'then I suppose I shall have no choice but to propose a trade.'

'Hmmm, and what do you have that I could possibly want, sweetheart?' he murmured enjoying the game and the moment too much to really think about what he was doing. Instead he found himself looking Anna over again and considering just precisely how much she had matured in the past handful of years.

'Oh Ffamran, I think you'd be surprised as to what I can offer you.'

Anna smiled winsomely and turned towards him, pushing off from the railing so she could rest her two hands, one on each of his shoulders. Balthier stiffened – he had been a philanderer too long, and one also inclined towards the wrong sort of woman – he was not about to let Anna (with her very real grievance against him) too near his most precious anatomical assets. To that end he casually stepped back trying to make sure his groin was nowhere in range of a well placed feminine knee should Anna have happened to pick up some less than ladylike tendencies over the years.

As he did so Balthier weighed up the equally subtle invitation and threat in her words, considered both in terms of his commonsense (which told him this woman could be trouble – there were far too many unknowns regarding her reappearance) and the purely reckless spirit (engendered over the years of his piratehood) that guided so much of his decision making processes (this voice, closely linked to his reawakened libido, told him Anna was an attractive woman who wanted something from him – if she was willing to 'trade' favours who was he to deny her?).

In the end common sense and perhaps a shred of the decency both he and Anna assumed he'd bartered away long ago, won out the inner debate. Almost sighing with regret, he had been so bored and lacking in feminine distraction of late (Fran didn't count as Fran was not a distraction – what precisely she was to him, and what he might want her to be, was a thought for another night), Balthier stepped back from Anna completely.

'I don't wish to trade.' He said quietly.

He had taken quite enough from Anna to begin with and his stunted, much maligned conscience would not really have let him take anymore from her. He glanced over at the tavern once more thinking of Fran and the respite that she was from the worst of himself. Really, it was getting to the point where he no longer thought it safe that he should be away from her at any time – he could not be trusted.

'If you want a story Anna, I'll give you one. I owe you that much at least.' He glanced back at her and brushed invisible lint from his sleeves as he tucked his raging libido and sheer bloody stupid recklessness back into the dark corners of his mind.

'Now is not the best of times however. There are a vast number of people trying to kill me for some unfathomable reason and I need to put a stop to that, and I have an errand to run and little time left in which to do it.'

Not to mention the fact that the Landis Phoenix had vanished once more. Upon arriving in Bhujerba over a week ago Balthier had once again checked his trunk and been unsurprised (though marginally disappointed) to find the Phoenix was no longer in there (he was not sure it ever had been). Unfortunately that meant he actually had to find the bloody thing for Larsa and he had no idea where to begin looking for it; if it wasn't in the bottom of his trunk it could be almost anywhere – or possibly nowhere.

'I know.' Anna said decisively and something in her tone suggested that she was not merely agreeing that the timing was poor for her hoped for expose. He turned back to her questioningly. Anna met his eyes and tilted her chin up proudly.

'As I said earlier Ffamran, chasing your tail has been very illuminating, if not a little frustrating. I think I have now spoken to just about every pirate or pirate's apprentice from here to Balfonheim. That's what I wanted to trade; I know who is trying to kill you and I know why the bounty was placed on your head.'

For a split second Balthier only stared at her, 'How?' he demanded more forcefully that he intended, 'How can you know that?'

Pirates either of sea or sky were not the most forthcoming when it came to information (or anything at all) and Balthier found himself at a loss to fathom how _Anna Zaagabaath, _of all people, could have such prized information that had so far eluded him.

Anna gave him a rather intent look, 'I'm a reporter Ffamran, asking questions and finding answers is what I do.' she paused thoughtfully before adding meditatively, 'I've found that having a pleasant demeanour and large breasts also helps; especially with pirate men.'

Balthier took a moment to absorb that statement before deciding it was best not to comment. Shaking his head he fixed her with a look that had been known to make even hardened pirates cringe. 'Fine, then if you would be so kind as to enlighten me?' he asked levelly.

Anna blew on her hands, a brittle breeze ghosted over the waters of the river making it cold on the waterfront. 'It is all to do with politics,' she began frowning adorably, 'which struck me as terribly funny. All these uncouth pirates and they have such an intricate system of self-governance; there is an irony there I'm sure.'

'Anna,' Balthier resisted actually telling her to bloody well get on with it and instead hoped that she would not go off into tangential musings over the ironies of a group of criminals possessing their own form of governance and self-policing.

Anna seemed to realise his impatience and smiled vaguely apologetically, 'Oh, yes, of course. Well I spoke to that nice Rikken man, he's a little on the _hairy_ side for my tastes but very pleasant when one gets to know him.' She paused but swiftly continued when she caught sight of Balthier's expression, 'Anyway it is all due to the fact that for the last year and half Balfonheim and pirates in general have been operating without a pirate king.'

'Yes I know that,' Balthier agreed with strained civility, 'I was there when the last one evaporated.'

Anna eyed him curiously perhaps due to his choice of words, which while apt would seem strange to someone who hadn't watched the sun cryst explode into vapour and liquid fire taking first Cid and then Reddas with it.

'Well that is the reason Ffamran; all the pirates of note in Ivalice are vying to become the next king,' when Balthier continued to look at her expectantly Anna elaborated though her expression said she thought he was being deliberately obtuse not to understand the point already.

'Well don't you see, Ffamran? You are the most famous sky pirate in all Ivalice; you have also been linked to the deaths of the last two kings. Killing you is guaranteed to give any ambitious pirate the prestige they need to be the next pirate king.'

Balthier opened his mouth and drew breath to speak only to find that he literally could not think of a damned thing to say, and then he did and so he said it.

'Oh bloody hell.'


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve: 702o.v: Aboard Ruthy's Strahl**

_A/N: warning this chapter is a little………kinky and a little twisted, those of a nervous disposition look away now; Balthier is one wicked, wicked boy and ruthless as all get out when backed into a corner. ; 0 _

* * *

_Balthier awoke quite suddenly; one moment he was dead asleep the next moment he was fully aware and lucid once more. It was something of a rude awakening to burst forth from the depths of comfortable insensibility to suddenly find oneself in all manner of awkwardness. _

_The main reason for his discomfort was the realisation that, underneath the thin sheets covering him, he was completely undressed. This disturbing development was further heightened by the fact that he did not recognise the bed he now found himself in and he most certainly did not recognise the braided black leather whip mounted to the wall above the head of the bed as one of his possessions._

_In fact he had no idea where he was for all of a full five minutes; then the details of the small room and the faint sonorous rumbling of powerful glossair engines vibrating through the walls sparked reconnection. _

'…..Strahl?'

_His throat was dry and sore and his head ached when he finally found the strength to raise it from the perfume scented pillows. For a fraction of a second a surge of pure joy rose within his heart: the Strahl, his lovely Strahl. It had been months since he had so much as glimpsed the Strahl and he had missed the ship with an almost physical ache._

_His happiness lasted only as long as it took for him to remember whom it was who currently commanded the ship that should, and one day would, be his. _

'Ruthy,' _almost as soon as his lips formed the name he spotted her sitting disturbingly quietly across the room (or the cabin as it actually was) reading a book she held cradled in her lap, one toned and muscular leg crossed over the other and her bright red lips pursed into a completely disingenuous pout of concentration. As he spoke she looked up, feigning surprise._

'Ah, so you've decided to grace Ivalice with your consciousness again, have you, Balthier darling?'

'It would appear so, yes,' _Balthier grumbled as he hiked up the sheets to make sure he was fully covered and rolled over so he could sit up. Naked in her bed was not how he would like to confront Ruthy, he was already seriously disadvantaged but he'd be damned if he gave her the satisfaction of showing any of his unease._

'I believe I started out with clothes, madam, do you know what happened to my affects?' _He smiled tightly fighting a wave of nauseous dizziness as his stomach cramped and his senses spun in protest against his efforts to sit up. _

_Ruthy smiled richly as she tucked a limp leather bookmark between the pages of the novel she had been reading and placed the slim volume on the round end table beside her chair. She rose languidly and sauntered over to him._

'Indeed I do know what become of your vestments and raiment's, young sir,' _her smiled grew more predatory as she settled on the edge of the bed beside him reaching out with one long, sharp nail to tickle his collarbone, _'but I do so prefer you like this, dear boy.'

'Indeed?' _Refusing to either flinch or blush Balthier pasted a blandly inquiring smile onto his face and met those dark gimlet eyes head on, _'And how is that, madam? Hung-over from an overdose of mind-altering narcotics, or is it the prospect of the power you think you have over me that makes the sight so appealing, hmm?'

_Ruthy laughed outright at that, throwing her head back and gracing him with a highly theatrical rolling guffaw._

'Oh, my dear boy you are precious!' _she announced when she stopped laughing. Leaning over she lightly scratched her nails over his throat and adams apple and Balthier fought with himself not to jerk away from her touch. He knew from experience that Ruthy only liked it more if he reacted with obvious disgust or displeasure to her outrageous flirtation. _

'Hardly,' _he scoffed, _'I merely possess the intellect to know that I am nothing more to you, madam, than a toy – or a means to an end.'

_Ruthy, who was dressed in a black lace nightgown, decked with thick, scratchy lace ruffles at the neck and cuffs chuckled and reached out to seize his face between her hands. She pressed his cheeks together painfully against her hard palms, nails digging into the sensitive skin at his temples near his eyes. Her dark gaze gouged into his. _

'Tsk, tsk,' _she clucked her tongue at him as she climbed up the bed, kneeling on his own legs and pinning him painfully in place by doing so. _'So sharp, so cynical, a head full of broken glass and shattered faith: one day you'll tear yourself to pieces, my dear, dear Balthier.'

_Ignoring that particular piece of prophesy Balthier pulled carefully away from her grip on his face (and she let him, her nails only catching a little as he pulled back). _'You spoke earlier, before I lost consciousness, of a deal between us, madam. Do you care to pick up the discussion once more?'

_He had found that treating Ruthy with exaggerated courtesy both amused and gratified the piratess and so he was always mindful to be respectful without sliding into obsequiousness when speaking with the woman. Thankfully Remus did not trust his sometime paramour anymore than he trusted Balthier and so took measures to ensure Balthier and Ruthy did not see much of each other alone; if nothing else Balthier had to be grateful to Remus for that. He had known from the moment he had met Ruthy, back in Archades, that the woman wanted something from him, something he would not want to give. _

'Now, now Balthier, all work and no play makes you a very dull boy.' _Her blood red lips parted in a sharp smile, _'don't you want to play with me, darling?'

Good gods no, _Balthier thought sincerely and with vehemence but he kept his true feelings to himself and smiled insincerely back at Ruthy, _'Madam I think you are perhaps a little too much fun for this _boy_ to handle, hmm?'

_He had hoped to amuse and flatter the sexual sadist sat on top of him with his deflection but instead Ruthy's expression hardened and the lascivious temptress façade folded back from the true, brutal intellect that was the real Ruthy. When she reached out to grasp the back of his head this time, it was not lust that motivated her – or at least not entirely._

'No,' _she answered seriously the question he had only posed as an evasion, _'When I look at you, who was once Ffamran Mid Bunansa, I see my own death looking back at me.'

_Balthier tensed, he could not help it, and he knew Ruthy could tell what impact her words had had on him. She nodded without a trace of a smile on her face before she jerked his head back even further with one hand and raised the sharpened nails of the other to press, oh so lightly, against the delicately stretched skin of his throat. He could feel the tickle of her nails against his throat like the points of nails and he knew, with sudden prescience, that Ruthy would think nothing of driving those nails into his flesh until she drew blood. She would tear his throat out with her own hands if it suited her. _

'Nothing to say, dear?' _Ruthy leaned forward, and the pressure of her weight on his thighs sent tingling spasms of pain through him. He swallowed as he ruthlessly suppressed the desire to try and shove her off; if he so much as tried she would kill him_.

'Wise, very wise. You are so very clever, aren't you? So ruthlessly patient, I don't think you even realise how evil you are, do you Balthier?'

_Her nails were digging into his skin as he swallowed once more and the nails of her other hand prickled against his scalp as she gripped a fistful of his hair at the back of his head. His muscles sang with tension, back twitching against the strain of his arched throat and his legs aching with encroaching numbness. _

'Evil is a matter of perspective,' _he said carefully, throat moving awkwardly and raking against her nails as he spoke. Ruthy pushed her nails in deeper, as feeling out the large veins and muscles reading to tear them loose and shred his throat. _

'Oh no,' _she whispered her lips brushing against his ear and the ruffles of her high-necked black negligee scratching against his bare chest as she leaned against him. The heady scent of her perfume and the thick weight of her coarse black hair surrounded him, _'evil is fact Balthier. Perspective is just the excuse cowards use to justify what they do.'

'What do you want from me, Ruthy?'

_Balthier did not trust the direction of this conversation and in his anxiety he forgot himself and the carefully self-taught methods for handling the woman before him. His heart rate picked up and he worked to keep his breathing steady as his body screamed its distress through every nerve ending he had. _

_Ruthy pulled back from him, abruptly letting go of his head, as she laughed softly, insidiously. _'Foolish, Balthier, foolish.'

_She waited until his had stretched out the kinks in his neck and met her eyes before continuing, a thin mocking smile on her face. _'Never ask an enemy what they want from you, boy, only even offer what you are willing to give up.'

_Balthier pursed his lips. He too had realised instantly just how dangerous it was to ask a sexual sadist 'what they wanted' while he was trapped in their boudoir with not a stitch to protect his dignity and no weapon in sight. He nodded once, jerkily, as he regained his composure. Ruthy spoke once more before he could think of anything to say however and in retrospect that was probably a blessing in disguise._

'I knew your father once upon a time; did you know that, Balthier?'

_Ruthy did not bother to look to catch the expression of startled wariness which ghosted across his face as she moved off his legs and rose from the bed. Instead she turned her back on him completely and moved to the floor to ceiling bookcase bolted to the cabin wall; her hands dancing over the spines of the volumes packed therein. She glanced back at him after a moment and Balthier licked his lips almost nervously._

'I had suspected that might be the case; you recognised my parentage from the moment we met. You have also hinted more than once that you knew my,' _he hesitated just a moment before amending what he had planned to say, _'you hinted that you knew Dr Cid.'

_Ruthy smiled thinly and something about the expression made the faint lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth more evident; for once Ruthy looked her age. Bitterness, harsh and astringent, leeched from her dark eyes to permeate the air of the cabin. _

'I knew your mother too,' _Ruthy's smile turned sour, _'Ezria, beautiful dark eyed mongrel half-cast that she was. Exotic and gentle Ezria, my, what a scandal it was when Cidolfus brought her home as his wife.' _Despite the mocking lilt to her voice something harsh and hate-filled maligned the word 'wife' as it left Ruthy's lips. _

_Balthier studied the woman before him as if he had never seen her before. He had long suspected that she was a fallen Gentry, much like himself. She was simply too well read, too educated, to be a product of Balfonheim or one of the other pirate ports of Ivalice. Vaguely, and completely beside the point, he wondered how many other pirates of sky and sea were in fact merely angry Archadian dissidents?_

_Ruthy was still caught in her own retrospection and she spoke up once more distracting Balthier from his rather amusing tangent, _'And then of course, Bhujerba's sweetest blossom lost her babies, one after 't'other,' _Ruthy smiled like a knife in the dark, _'do you know that your father wept in public - in the middle of a Solidor banquet – when the news reached him that little Vassili had finally succumbed to his tumour?'

_Balthier could only stare at her in silence. The notion that his father could be driven to tears about anything at all, let alone the death of his brother, two years dead before he was even conceived, rendered him mute -as did the realisation that Ruthy (whomever she once was in a past-life) must once have been close to his father and his mother to know so much about his family. _

'I was gone from Archades' red and green heights by the time you arrived,' _Ruthy told him almost conversationally, _'I had heard it told however that your father did not want you. He was tired of burying sons and wanted to give up the attempt to sire a next generation Bunansa. Ezria however was insistent, desperate even, to bear a child that would live.'

_Ruthy gave up her blind study of the volumes on her bookcase and turned back to him, her gaze riveting in its intensity. Balthier felt the blood grow cold in his veins at her words – 'your father did not want you'._

'And then I was born,' _he said musingly refusing to allow her words to affect him – at least visibly, _'a son who lived, and all it cost my mother was her life.'

_Ruthy nodded her dark eyes glittering with a form of madness, the chaotic depths of which, he was only just beginning to understand and that faint knowledge chilled him to the very morrow of his bones. _

'You really do look the very image of your father,' _Ruthy said in an almost puzzled, wistful tone of voice he had never heard from her before but then her expression hardened, _'but I see the ghost of your mother in you too; your slenderness, your grace of carriage, those are from _her.' _Ruthy almost spat.

_For the briefest of moments Balthier knew what true fear was, the fear of something he could not change, something not of his doing but which would nevertheless cost him dearly. Then he marshalled his wits and his courage; he would not allow the shadow of his past to destroy him no matter how often it reared its ugly head. _

'I am not my mother and I am not my father.'

_He gripped the sheet in tight fists pulling it up his body as far as he could. He did not have the body heat to blush; a lump of ice grew inside his gut, cold tendrils of sickened horror spreading through his veins with every second spent under her scrutiny. _

'No you are not,' _Ruthy agreed smiling like a serpent, then abruptly her smile and the brilliant madness in her eyes was once again swallowed by the shroud of her more familiar sensual insanity. Almost briskly she spoke again._

'I know that Nylous sent you to destroy Remus,' _she told him crisply and Balthier had no time to say anything at all before she spoke again, '_I also know that you have plans for Nylous too. You are Bunansa; you will never be a puppet to the will of another, certainly not one of Nylous' ilk.'

'I am no one's puppet and no one's spy, madam.' _He had to speak up, even if she would not believe it, his silence would merely act as corroborating evidence to support her claims and Balthier had no way of knowing if anyone was listening from behind a door._

'You yourself were present for most of my – induction – into pirate service,' _for a moment the sensory memory of Ruthy's rich dulcet tones reading aloud the tale of the scoundrel Balthier to him as the whip made bloody ribbons out of his back caused his throat to close in on itself. He had to take a breath before he could continue and resisted the desire to touch his fingers to the scars that formed a lattice work across his back from that time,_ 'you know what went on. You know why I stay in Remus' service.'

'Oh yes,' _Ruthy purred the sultry sadist in control once more hiding any hint of the bitter, jaded, vengeful woman who lived beneath her veneer, _'you are running away from him too. You want to hurt him, destroy the last of his hopes and dreams.'

_Ruthy laughed then and the sound was as harsh as thin ice shattering, _'I cannot begin to tell you how much joy it gives me to see Cidolfus' only child, the child that Bhujerban slut died to birth, stealing, swindling and lying, all the while bringing his father and his good name into total disrepute.'

_For a handful of seconds time stood on its head, frozen as the breath had frozen in his lungs. Realisation crashed through Balthier; once upon a time Ruthy had loved his father and once upon a time his father had chosen another. It staggered Balthier to realise that all the cruelty in Ruthy stemmed from such a petty hurt but he could not deny the truth of it as that broken-hearted madness stared at him, an abyss of rage and hurt that wanted nothing more than to devour him -as he was the product of the union which broke her heart. _

_Balthier's mind raced as he considered his options. He had had no comprehension as to how dangerous Ruthy was to him until now; armed with that bitter knowledge he had very little time to figure out how to use it to save himself. _

'I am glad to be of service to you, madam.' _He purred silkily, smiling even as his stomach danced uncomfortable pirouettes and bile burned his throat. Ruthy's eyes met his, confusion breaking through the glaze of her madness._

_He knew just how precarious his situation was; he now knew absolutely how dangerous Ruthy was to him and how much she despised him, not for his own merits (and the very real possibility that he might have to kill her one fine day) but because of his bloody father and the mother he had never known. Would he be forever cursed by his lineage; would he never be free of his father's shadow? _

'It seems to me, madam Ruthy, that you and I have a common grievance.' _He suggested still smiling charmingly (the muscles of his face protesting against the expression even as he clung to it with all his might.) the next few moments would decide so many things. What he now knew of Ruthy could either be the death of him – or the means to control _her_. _

_Ruthy watched him, expression muddled, as if she had forgotten he was there, so busy was she venting her anger against his father upon him. Balthier wondered if she had ever really seen him as himself or if every time she tormented him with words and actions she was in fact only seeing the ghost of his father from years before?_

'Indeed and what grievance is that?'

_Suspicion marked her tone when she eventually spoke, but there was also curiosity. Balthier knew then that he had her; he could defeat her using her own weakness, her own hate. She would not have the strength to resist him – if only he could marshal his wits and control his disgust to do what he must. Balthier let his smile broaden and finally loosened his death grip on the bedsheets, reclining against the headboard just a little as he did so. _

'Why, madam Ruthy, I would think that was obvious,' _he murmured soothingly, cajolingly, _'we both want to see Cidolfus Bunansa destroyed.'

_Ruthy frowned suspicion alight in her gimlet eyes, _'He is your father, you truly hate him that much?'

_Balthier could feel the muscles of his face freeze as he fought to keep his come hither smile from becoming a grimace of distaste. A thousand thoughts and feelings rocketed through his mind in that moment as his body seemed to move of its own accord. Almost delicately he kept a grip on the bedsheet, keeping most of himself covered, as he turned and let one leg and then the other land on the floor. As he sat on the edge of the bed he looked over his shoulder, still smiling engagingly at Ruthy, eyes rooted to hers as she watched him like a hungry hunting bird. _

'It is always about him, isn't it?' _He drawled, allowing just enough of his true emotion to colour his words for sincerity, _'He is the reason for everything you and I do. Neither one of us was ever quite good enough for the man, were we, despite everything we did for him to make him happy, hmm?'

_He did not need to be more specific than that, he saw Ruthy's eyes narrow and her lips purse, _'Cidolfus,' _she whisper-cursed his name. _

_Balthier nodded eyes never leaving hers as he shifted just a little closer to the edge of the bed and let the sheet slip a little away from him. He could feel the cold air of the cabin against his right hip as the sheet fell back. For a moment the voice in the back of his head that screamed at him not to do this grew in volume, but he ruthlessly suppressed it. It was do or die and guilt and morality would not save him so why should he heed them? _

'You are right about everything, Ruthy,' _He smiled sardonically when her eyes widened at this suddenly confession and he shrugged a little in seeming embarrassment (which also showed off the breadth of his shoulders and the lean play of muscle down his back)._

'Well, not about the spying part, obviously,' _he let his smile grow wide once more, _'I assure you I am not working for that reprehensible bag of blubber, Nylous; I'd sooner die. However you are right about one thing, everything I have done to be here is about Cid; I want him to suffer for my infamy.'

_Ruthy's eyes were wide and slightly glazed. She watched him, the thin sheet bunched in his lap barely concealing his modesty, his long legs, lean and tone from hard work and natural good breeding bare and braced against the floor. The smile on his face guileless and yet artfully seductive, the look in his eyes calculated to express just the right amount of avarice and vindictiveness to entice a woman like Ruthy, and all wrapped up in a body and a face that was the perfect blending of the man Ruthy had once adored and the woman who had stolen that man from her. _

_In that moment Balthier made himself the perfect honey trap for Ruthy; he did it deliberately and with full knowledge of the likely consequences and he refused to be ashamed of the necessity. Ruthy was dangerous, she had the power to kill him, and she could hand him over to Remus right now and there would be little Balthier could do to save himself. This was not a matter of ethics or morality it was a matter of life and limb. _

_Steeling himself against his own prudishness, and excepting the loss of his dignity, integrity, and the last vestiges of the breeding and morality he had been raised to, Balthier rose smoothly off the edge of the bed, letting the sheet fall away almost gracefully. _

'I can help you, Ruthy.'

_It took more strength than Balthier would ever admit to, to walk that small distance from the end of the bed to where Ruthy stood, watching him; with every step, walking with the bearing of a king, Balthier had to fight with himself not to let a whisper of his true feelings free upon his face or posture. The weight of her eyes on him, flicking over his bare body, sickened him but he refused to be cowed by it. If forced he could do anything, no matter how distasteful and he could do it with a smile, if he must. _

_Finally he reached Ruthy, after what seemed to be an eternity wherein each step separated him from his self-respect by a mile. When he reached her he dropped gracefully, almost lasciviously, to his knees before her, the scratchy fabric of the hem of her negligee rough against his cheek. He looked up her body to her face and smiled as he spoke._

'I am the means to destroy my father once and for all; through me you can finally have your revenge on Cidolfus Demen Bunansa - but I need your help to do it.'

_Ruthy, for all her insane bitterness, her wilful madness, was still no fool. She looked down at him harshly, _'You merely want me to save you from Remus.'

_Balthier smiled up at her unfazed, _'I do not need you to save me as such……merely to consider your choices, carefully.' _He demurred slyly,_ 'you rescued me from those bounty hunters and brought me here, that suggests to me that you would sooner I stay alive and in one piece, hmm?'

_Ruthy smiled coldly, _'Yes, you could be useful, but I don't trust you.'

_Careful not to drop eye contact Balthier settled back on his haunches still kneeling before Ruthy, still for all intents and purposes, in her power, a naked supplicant at her feet. With everything in him he projected that very image through his voice and bearing: that he was in her debt and her power. Sometimes the power of a lie was in the conviction one spent on enforcing the deceit. _

'Trust has nothing to do with our way of life, madam. We are beyond such trifles, aren't we? All that matters is this: I am in your debt. We both have something the other wants; I am willing to negotiate fair trade if you are?'

_Ruthy laughed, abruptly delighted and reached down to touch the top of his head, fisting her fingers in the slight curls clustering his crown. _'Are you willing to play with me now, my bright boy?'

_Balthier smiled tightly as inside something screamed in rage and fear, but he spoke with utter smoothness as he rose to his feet. Ruthy's hands dropped from his head to his shoulders as he did so and her touch seemed to brand him, icy heat and shame biting at his insides, yet he refused to let any of that show. Learning to fly would hurt, he had known that when he threw away the life of Ffamran Mid Bunansa for this one. Now, as then, he had to fix his mind on the prize and not think on what his ultimate freedom cost him along the way. _

_He dropped into a perfect, courtly Archadian bow, but never once dropped eye contact with Ruthy; this was a seduction as deadly as any duel with gun or cutlass and he could not afford to let his defences falter. He needed a weapon to survive Remus now that he had lost the Phoenix and here, inside the Strahl that Remus had stolen from him, he would turn Ruthy into that weapon; no matter what it cost him._

_He smiled at Ruthy, smiled into those eyes that wanted nothing more than vengeance against his father and he knew, somewhere inside, that this hollow victory would haunt him forever. Raising one of her hands off his shoulder he lifted it to his lips, dropping a kiss to that hateful palm. _

'I am your attentive student in any and all games you wish to play, madam Ruthy.'


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: 707o.v Landia, Landis**

The Tavern heaved with the sheer volume of people filling the space and the tang of body odour and malt hit Balthier in the face like a hot, redolent slap. He made a mental note to find some other convenient meeting place for future rendezvous with Fran; he was growing heartily sick of taverns.

With Anna trailing at his heels (still talking) he made his way through the press of bodies to where he could see the tips of Fran's ears over the heads of the people seated across the tavern. It was conceivable, he supposed, that those ears were not Fran's but those of another Viera, but the chances were slight enough that he moved forward confidently.

Balthier was not the sort of man to push his way through the great mass of unwashed between him and his objective, instead with the power of long practice he projected an almost tangible aura of confidence and purpose.

The effect was something akin to a Shell or Shield spell in that the denizens of the tavern who found themselves in his way and confronted by Balthier at his most imperious, also found themselves all but repelled out of his path by the sheer force of his confident belief that if he wanted to walk straight through an over crowded tavern without taking any irritating detours he bloody well would do so.

Therefore in relatively short time he arrived at the table where Fran sat with Hamish Fon Denbak and, curiously, a rather pale, anxious and slightly battered looking Penelo. Before he had even reached the trio Balthier had formed the bedrock suspicion that he was not going to like the story behind why Penelo was bereft of her bosom companion or why she and Fran looked quite so…grim.

'Balthier!'

Penelo launched herself at him and it was only a last minute twinge of conscience that stopped him from neatly sidestepping out of the girl's path and allowing Penelo to careen straight into Anna.

'How now, Penelo, something wrong?'

He inquired dryly even though he did not really wish to know what calamity had undoubtedly befallen Vaan necessitating the other Rabanastran's uncharacteristic absence. It was too much to hope that the boy had simply decided to abandon both his childhood sweetheart and his obsession with following Balthier about and wandered off for pastures new.

Penelo stopped herself just short of flinging her arms around him and Balthier had to grant her credit for that piece of prudence; the girl was incredibly tactile in her interactions with most people but was perceptive enough to recognise that neither Balthier nor Fran appreciated that sort of physicality among peers. Truly, Penelo was the only one of the pair of street urchins with any potential.

'Balthier, Vaan…he…'

'He is what?'

Balthier glanced over Penelo's head as the girl trailed off, swallowing hard and looking like she might begin crying at any moment (the last thing he wanted was a crying woman on his hands). He met Fran's eyes and nodded briefly to Hamish. It would appear Fran had experienced a great deal more success in their venture than he had.

Penelo looked up at him, large pale eyes watering, 'He's been taken hostage by a man called Eraldo Lumineres,' her hands twisted together, knuckles whitening as her fingers writhed together like snakes, 'He captured us when we were flying to Balfonheim. I managed to get free…..I think I was allowed to escape……but not Vaan.'

Penelo sniffed mightily and her breath escaped her in little hiccupping stops and starts, almost as if she was about to pass out or start to hyperventilate. Thoroughly frustrated with the whole sorry affair, Balthier yanked out his handkerchief and stuffed it into the girl's hands.

Clearly Penelo interpreted this act of barely constrained impatience as some manner of tacit empathy for her plight and with an aborted sob flung herself at him after all, dissolving into tears.

'Oh, marvellous, just marvellous,' Balthier had never coped well with crying women. He just didn't understand tears in general and, having been kidnapped, held hostage and threatened with torture and death innumerable times before he found her reaction to such both incomprehensible and profoundly unhelpful.

Despite this and perhaps because Fran and was watching him and Fran was rather fond of the over-emotional little girl, Balthier awkwardly closed his arms around her shoulders and patted her gently in what he hoped was a vaguely consoling gesture.

'Now, now, Penelo, my dear, all things considered Eraldo is not such a bad sort, I'm sure he has no intention of harming Vaan.' _Or at least not irrevocably,_ he added as a silent caveat.

With Penelo obviously trying to control herself (he was sure she was less emotional during their sojourn with the Princess over a year ago – perhaps it was some manner of hormonal imbalance?) Balthier steered her towards the table and made sure she was securely seated before turning to address Fran and Hamish.

'Hamish, you look well,' he nodded ironically to the man, aware of Anna managing to be surprisingly unobtrusive at his back. 'Fran, well done on managing to find the man, I'm glad one of us has had some luck.'

'Aye, Ffamran, I'd say it was good to see yuir again too, but I have a feeling I'm not going to like the reason for this meeting.' Hamish's greeting was luke-warm at best.

Fran merely quirked an expressive eyebrow at him, her gaze flicking questioningly towards Anna, Balthier cleared his throat just a tad awkwardly.

'Ah, yes,' he turned towards Anna and gently pulled her before him to face the table smiling brightly (if not a little inanely) as he did so, 'Fran, I would like you to meet Anna Zaagabaath, Anna this is my partner Fran, but I'm sure you already knew that. Hamish, you remember Anna do you not?'

'Gods above and below, Ffamran, tell me yuir have not kidnapped the lass again?'

Hamish clearly _did_ recognise Anna and was more than a trifle appalled to see her once again. Balthier felt his brows dip and even Penelo looked up from her sniffling with curiosity written large upon her damp features.

'Oh no, Mr Fon Denbak, in fact it is the other way around, in a manner of speaking.'

Anna said chipperly and extended her hand across the table to the man, 'I can't tell you how much of a thrill it is to see you again, Mr Fon Denbak, and to find you in Ffamran's company. I have no doubt that headline alone would sell thousands of papers.' She smiled happily; Balthier repressed the undignified desire to roll his eyes.

'Anna has made for herself quite a successful career in journalism,' Balthier explained smoothly, favouring the newest thorn in his side with a rather false smile, 'In fact our meeting was quite fortuitous as Anna is in the process of covering the sky pirate succession war, for the prurient interest of her middle class Ardent news reading public.'

Anna gave him a quizzical look, the expressions on his other companions faces varied from Fran's rather closely guarded stoicism to Penelo's open confusion and Hamish' deepening suspicion. Balthier felt his suave smirk lock into place as he pulled out a chair for Anna and then went around the table to take his seat next to Fran. He relaxed nonchalantly with the full knowledge that he had a rapt audience at his disposal.

'Pirate succession war, what's that?' Penelo spoke up blowing her nose inelegantly on his handkerchief. Balthier sighed, there went the loss of another handkerchief as there was no chance he would take the thing back now.

'The very reason poor Vaan has been taken from your side, I dare say. I must admit that Eraldo Lumineres is not the man I expected to open hostilities however,' he shrugged cheerfully, 'well it can't be helped I suppose.'

'Know you something we do not, Balthier?' Fran asked him pointedly.

'Hmm,' he smiled blandly, 'I doubt it is possible for any to know more than you, Fran, however it might be best if Anna relate to you the news she has just imparted to me. I think it will cast a new complexion on recent events.'

He allowed himself to sink a little lower into his chair, folding his hands over his stomach as he stretched his legs under the table. Letting Anna explain the unfortunate situation vis-à-vis the assassination attempts on his life would allow him a few moments to think – and he rather badly needed to do a lot of thinking in a very small period of time if he was to get ahead of events fast spiralling out of his immediate control.

The image of Eraldo Lumineres ghosted across his thoughts and Balthier winced internally. Eraldo was not precisely a pirate, in that he did not partake of illegal activities such as looting, hi-jacking and theft himself, instead he made an obscene amount of Gil benefiting from the criminal activities of those who did partake in looting, hi-jacking and theft.

'Well first I would like to say that it is an absolute pleasure to meet two of the heroes of Dalmasca's liberation, especially you Fran, I have dearly hoped to have the opportunity to speak with you, and perhaps, once we are better acquainted you might acquiesce to an interview?'

Balthier himself had always maintained an amicable working relationship with the Bhujerban crime master, in that he stayed out of Eraldo's way for the most part and Eraldo did not attempt to kill him in return. Until today Balthier had assumed that working relationship was mutually beneficial, but obviously Eraldo had other ideas.

'Well as Ffamran intimated to you my name is Anna Zaagabaath, I believe you are familiar with my father Judge Magister Zaagabaath? What Ffamran has neglected to mention is that he and I were once engaged to be married......'

As Anna gushed over further introductions, demonstrating as she did so a frankly disturbing glee and hitherto unknown capacity for mischief as she took far too much pleasure retelling the story of their last parting (Balthier made note that he would have to be careful not to underestimate this new Anna) he took his time chewing over the news that every pirate with a grain of ambition or greed in he or she (so, in essence all of them) would be trying to kill him to secure their bid for the dubious honour of becoming the next pirate king.

'As I explained to Ffamran when I found him standing over an assassin's corpse earlier this very evening, I am a reporter for the Archades Herald, the foremost daily newspaper in the Archades and Cerobi region. Due to my prior association with Ffamran before he left Archades to embark on a life of general lawlessness, it was decided by my editor that I would work on a series of articles detailing the life of Archades 'Prodigal Son'……'

After absorbing the initial shock of this news, Balthier had come to the conclusion, that yes, from a certain less than intelligent perspective it did make sense that he would be a target in any war for power amid pirate-kind, and certainly he had earned his preeminent position in the nebulous hierarchy of Ivalice piracy. Still there were a number of questions that needed answers before he could even begin to implement the plan forming in his mind for what to do about these events.

'…..and that is what I discovered, after the death of former Judge Magister Zecht, otherwise known as the pirate king Reddas; piracy in Ivalice has fallen into a power vacuum, the result of which is a vast increase in the numbers of sky pirates and the severity of their innumerable depredations, as I think you witnessed in Lemures?'

Balthier let Anna's breathless words wash over him in a warm wave of articulation. He could see the glazed look in Penelo's eyes and even Hamish was looking uncomfortably overwhelmed. Fran was not looking much of anything, but then Balthier had no doubt that Fran would have the strength of mind to keep up with Anna's endless chatter.

In fact as Anna spoke Fran watched him; Balthier did not squirm under that scrutiny (although he wanted to) but instead gave her a minute nod, suspecting that Fran had already ascertained the point behind Anna's stream of consciousness ramblings.

'After Reddas, it is you many will view as the greatest pirate alive in Ivalice this day, and one who holds most claim to the title of pirate king.'

Fran said interrupting Anna in mid-flow. Shockingly Anna stopped talking and did not feel the need to start up again.

Balthier sat up in his chair, 'Apparently,' he conceded the fact dryly while neatly side-stepping either agreeing with it or not, 'certainly that is the view Rikken seems to have taken, and the reason he has placed a bounty on my head.'

'Why?' Penelo asked eyes bright as she tried to work things out for herself, 'Does he want to be king instead?'

Balthier favoured Penelo with a genuine smile, 'Well done, my dear, you grasp the fundamentals quite well.'

Despite her general state of anxiety over the fate of poor, half-witted Vaan, Penelo preened a little at this genuine and unexpected praise from Balthier (who, even he was forced to admit, was not a man to give praise lightly).

Stroking his hands down his sleeves he continued, 'However if Rikken wanted to succeed Reddas he could have done so at any time in the intervening months. No, I think our dear Rikken has another motive behind setting every bloody cut-throat and opportunist in Ivalice against me.'

'But what?'

Penelo asked, proving once again that of the two Rabanastrans she was the one with brains, as Balthier had always suspected, which was probably why he actually approached feeling affection for the girl. Penelo was a worthy apprentice, Vaan was an idealistic inconvenience. Still it was personally insulting to Balthier that Eraldo Lumineres of all people had stolen the dim-witted street thief.

He might be insufferably idealistic, altruistic and bull-headedly noble but Balthier had found the dim-witted street thief first and he'd be damned if he let Lumineres use Vaan to destroy him; the embarrassment alone would surely kill him.

'That is the question, isn't it?' he murmured and then turned his attention to Hamish, 'But for the moment it can wait. Hamish, why is it precisely that you and your compeers of the Landis freedom movement are deliberately trying to thwart your only chance for autonomy, hmm?' he smiled thinly.

The other man looked slightly disconcerted by Balthier's apparently loss of interest in affairs very much concerning his immediate future. 'We are not trying to destroy our chance at autonomy. Gods man, yuir of all people should know I have dedicated the last twenty years of my life to seeing Landis free of Archadia.'

Balthier smiled lazily and flexed his fingers meditatively over the surprisingly plain (by his standards) vest he wore, 'Hmm, perhaps.'

To Hamish Fon Denbak, who had known Balthier since before there was a 'Balthier', the look in Balthier's eyes now, sly and veiled, was extremely troublesome. Hamish considered Balthier an ally and a friend, he owed the younger man his life and his liberty, but Hamish also knew that it was not wise to completely trust Balthier. He was far too devious and the twists and turns of his thought processes had a tendency to disregard such simplistic notions as loyalty, trust and friendship.

'What's going on in that mad head of yuir's, lad?' Hamish asked carefully by no means sure he wanted to know.

Balthier did not immediately answer and Hamish suspected that he was much too busy thinking and may not even have heard the question. Certainly his Viera partner looked as if she suspected no good to come of Blathier's growing silence. Finally Balthier lifted his gaze from his contemplation of his own fingers tracing the whorls and swirls embroidered on the vest he wore and met Hamish's eyes dead on.

'Tell me about the Landis Phoenix.'

'Good gods, Balthier, what have yuir to do with….' Hamish trailed off, 'Gods above man tell me it was not_ yuir_ that stole it.'

Hamish had known, in part because he had worked so closely with sky pirates to facilitate his resistance movement, that the Phoenix had been stolen from Archadian hands (who themselves had stolen it from the people of Landis) some time ago but he had honestly not considered just which group of pirates might have stolen it. Now he watched amusement dance across Balthier's face as the other man recognised the direction of his thoughts.

'Hm, yes, and people say you are slow, Hamish.'

'Why?' Hamish told himself there was absolutely no sense in feeling personally betrayed, Balthier was not of Landis and he had no comprehension of patriotism or sacrilege. Balthier shrugged.

'Remus wanted me too; it was a part of an incredibly complicated plot to kill me, as it happened.'

'Do you have it now?' In many ways that would be the best answer; lying bastard Balthier might be but he had more often than not shown a surprising, if slightly skewed, honour which would surely mean he would return Landis' greatest treasure when it was so badly needed.

'No, I do not, and now I find myself in the frankly ludicrous position wherein I am, apparently, the only one who can find the damn thing, but have no idea how to do so.'

Balthier shook his head, scowling lightly. 'Larsa wishes the Phoenix retrieved so that he may return it with much heartfelt apology to Landis.' Balthier quirked an eyebrow, 'Truly, you have a friend in little Lord Larsa, it is a pity for you and your compeers that it is your actions that will see Larsa forced to withdraw from any talks to liberate Landis.'

'My actions…..what in the gods blue blazes are yuir talking about?'

Balthier smiled then and Hamish was not the only one disconcerted by the pitiless look in his hooded eyes. This could only bode ill.

'The political situation in Archades is about to become somewhat…..fraught. Larsa will be forced to divert attention from the upcoming Landis summit and turn to matters closer to home. As the momentum to grant Landis her autonomy is almost entirely driven by the Emperor, this will prove to be a terrible blow to the freedom movement.'

'What matters closer to home?' Hamish asked through cold lips. He had seen his young friend look like this more than once, and knew that Balthier was about ready to enact some manner of complicated, almost unfathomable plan or some other action that no sane man would dare conceive of, let alone put into practice.

Balthier's smile grew wider as he reclined casually in his chair. The smoky light of the tavern flickered over the dangling jewellery in his ear as he cocked his head to the side and with utmost nonchalance examined the state of his snow white cuffs.

'A full scale uprising in Balfonheim,' Balthier explained, 'the port has held nominally to its independence from Archadia for years, however now they are about to press their own suit for autonomy – one that could be much more dangerous to Archadia than anything you and your luckless compatriots have ever attempted.'

'I fail to see how that has anything to do with me, lad.' Hamish blustered, though he found himself wondering why it was that his sources in the port had not mentioned any such uprising.

Balthier let the smile fade from his face like water draining from a cracked vase; all the humour and vitality leeched from his features and his eyes were dark, opaque and impenetrable.

'The Phoenix is not merely a particularly ugly national heirloom, is it? The rumour that it possesses the spirit of a fallen goddess holds more veracity than many believe, is that not so?'

'I've only heard rumours, lad,' Hamish shook his head, 'Ffamran, what are you planning?'

Balthier leaned forward suddenly, a surprising aggressive and jerky movement for the usual languid and aloft Archadian, his forearms braced on the table, 'How does the magick work, Hamish? The damn thing is your country's greatest treasure; I do not believe for a moment that no one in this damnable country knows what it does.'

In a war of deception and evasion Hamish could not compete with the younger man, that he well knew, and veteran of many battles Hamish knew when it was time to capitulate.

'The story goes that the spirit of the Phoenix can only be awakened by one who has a spirit the equal to her own; then she will heed that spirit's call and her power will be his to wield.'

Hamish had to concede to himself that he had never heard of anyone who knew what that 'power' was precisely, but it certainly sounded impressive. Alas, Balthier seemed to have a different opinion. He sat back in his chair all at once and crossed his arms over his chest, quietly indignant.

'Well that is singularly unhelpful.'

'I say again, Ffamran, what are you up to?'

Balthier's eyes flickered toward Anna Zaagabaath who had been industriously scribbling into a small notepad everything that had been said around the table.

'Anna, be a dear and be sure to take this down, would you?' Balthier smiled slyly, almost serpent like and the young woman glanced up at him startled, her pen growing still but her eyes growing expectant.

'Take down what, Ffamran?'

'I wish you to record that on this date Hamish Fon Denbak, prominent member of the coalition for the restoration of Landis, pledged to ensure that the rest of the coalition would agree to delay the summit with the Emperor Larsa, and the return of the Landis Phoenix as an act of goodwill and cooperation.'

'What – Ffamran I will do no such thing!'

Anna glanced between the two of them as Balthier continued to smile unconcerned and raised one eyebrow speculatively.

'Very well then, Anna, take this down instead: on this date Hamish Fon Denbak, was found to be in collusion with the very same sky pirate instigator of the recent Balfonheim aggression against Archadia; it is believe that the Landis freedom movement is actively supporting these illegal actions in a bid to destabilise Archades.'

The blood left Hamish' face as he stared at Balthier, who watched with merciless eyes. Anna too was staring at him in shock and Fran's ears were twitching as she watched all of them. A palpable pall of potential violence hung in the air.

'You are blackmailing me, lad?' he asked quietly and Balthier nodded unashamed and unabashed, the ruthless Hamish had always known was an inherent part of his character drawn like a naked blade against Hamish himself.

'Remus may have been a reprehensible brute but he did teach me one thing, there are no such things as 'friends' when one is a pirate, only enemies and people who do not know you well enough to yet become your enemy. I marked the lesson well, Hamish.'

Hamish shook his head, 'You are better than this Ffamran.'

Blathier laughed, bright and delighted, 'I assure you I am not.' He flicked his hands in an almost dismissive gesture, smirk relaxing into less tense lines, 'I am not attempting to ruin Landis, Hamish, or you personally.' He admitted in softer tones, 'I have every intention of finding and returning the Phoenix to you….however I have need of her powers first and your deadline does not allow me the time I need to finish my business.' He shrugged.

'What business might that be?'

Balthier chuckled richly as he rose to his feet, briefly stopping to exchange a highly charged silent look with Fran, 'Hamish, really, that should be obvious even to a blunt instrument like you.'

Balthier walked around the table as he smoothed the creases from his sleeves and gestured for the mildly scandalised Anna and Penelo to rise as well. Fran was standing already and watching her partner intently, 'I have an annoying apprentice to rescue, an ancient relic to recover and a personal empire to build. These things take time, even for one of my calibre.'

Hamish widened his eyes, 'An empire to build?'

Balthier looked down on Hamish and smiled thinly, 'The king is dead, long live the king, Hamish. You are looking at the _new_ heir regnant pirate king and I have any number of rambunctious subjects to subjugate and a small, self-contained war to manufacture, all in a very short period of time. Landis' ornamental goddess is going to help me do that.'

As Hamish struggled to comprehend what Balthier meant, the man in question offered him a flourishing bow and turned to leave, Fran at his side and Penelo and Anna trailing behind him. To Hamish he looked very much like a young king with his own personal entourage.

'A pleasure to see you again Hamish, I shall be sure to invite you to my coronation.' Balthier called behind him as he passed through the wall of people filling the tavern as easily as a ship breaking through ocean waves.

Hamish Fon Denbak watched his old friend and constant enigma leave the tavern and found himself wondering just what manner of tyrant had been newly unleashed on Ivalice now – and what man or woman could stand against the vaulting ambitions and calculations of the leading man?

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_A/N: I apologise for this chapter being a bit of a filler chapter. It was necessary for the plot but not a lot happened really (except Balthier being a ruthless, devious sod, but that's a given in any situation I write) I do promise that the next few chapters will have much excitement as Balthier et al go after Vaan and the Landis Phoenix makes its presence felt once more._

_P.S I also have big developments in store regards Fran too ;)_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen: 702o.v. Chantiliers Rest**

_A/N: hello all and sorry for the wait. Also special hello to Kai, a new reviewer, thank you for the kind words and I hope you enjoy ;)_

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_He dreamed he was flying; as always he knew that he dreamed, some part of his mind aware that what he saw was not real but only a fantasy he had yet to make reality. The fabric of the dream was not even that unusual; to fly was his only true aspiration. He longed with a near physical ache to see the Strahl again, that once derelict airship he had liberated from Draklor on the day he fled his home._

_What marked this dream apart from any that remembered before was that this time he was not flying aboard _his_ Strahl; a vessel that did not entirely exist anywhere but in his dreams being no more at present than a piece of the future he worked so hard to attain. _

_He was not flying any form of airship, in fact. Instead he seemed to be a part of the very essence of the sky, a fast moving cloud across the endless azure veldt that glowed in his mind's eye. He was the promise of a coming storm, the very wind itself. He was flight and movement and energy and possibility; he was a force of nature. He was free and he was rapturous with the joy of his own unfettered desire._

_He could hear the song of the hurricane, the wail of the cyclone and the whisper of the wind in the trees, those sonorous wild voices, light as air and capricious as he himself was wont to be, called his name. He was recognised as a one with the sky, a part of that wild, unending brilliance that was the very truth of all he longed for._

_He heard the voice whisper in his ear, like a lover or a mother (both of which he had never known as yet): _'You and I are one. In stone I was bound, in your flesh I will fly free once more. Take my hand mortal child and let us dance across this sky; you are the eye and I am the storm, together we are now and evermore Phoenix and eternal.'

_In the dream he reached out fingers of sky to touch the face of the tornado and tasted what it was to truly fly. In the dream his fingers felt a familiar artefact take form and substance; granite and marble, brass and steel. He heard the eagle's cry and it sounded like his own laughter._

_Balthier rose to consciousness slowly, almost cautiously. He was almost certain he was better off asleep, borne aloft in that wondrous dream, but as was often the case the option to stay insensate was not really a plausible one. He had things to do, primary among them being the need to ensure his continued survival. _

_Blinking his eyes open blearily Balthier struggled to lever himself up on his forearms staring woozily at the black braided whip hanging from its custom hook over the headboard of the bed. For a long moment he simply stared at that whip, deliberately not thinking or remembering anything of the previous nights……enterprise._

'You really did it,'

_The shocked exclamation from behind him jolted Balthier out of his carefully contrived temporary amnesia. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, seeking patience and all the self-control he could muster. When he felt both mentally and physically able to move (Ruthy's hinted reputation for disturbing carnal athleticism, Balthier now knew, was completely deserved) he turned around in the bed to face the voice._

'Did what?' _He asked disinterestedly as if he wasn't naked and dishevelled in the sadistic Piratess' bed. Sometimes all that stood between a man and either abject failure or total success was his own nerve; and Balthier, it could be honestly said, had a lot of nerve._

_Aeneas stood just inside Ruthy's cabin, holding, folded across his arms, a change of clothes for Balthier. It was his expression that was most telling however. He looked genuinely shocked, which considering the lasciviousness the young man was capable of was truly a feat. _

'Her…..you actually _did_ her: Ruthy. I heard everything, gods above but I sincerely wish I had been spared that. _Aeneas stared at him with a mixture of queasiness and awe,_ 'I've never heard Ruthy make sounds like that, and never thought a bloody _virgin_ would get that out of her.'

_The red-blooded part of Balthier was gratified to find that the other man was actually impressed while the more dominant part of his psyche just wished Aeneas would bloody well bugger off and leave him in peace to go about the sanity preserving business of repressing all memory of last night from his mind. If he could have expunged those memories with the use of metal files and iron brushes he would have done so without hesitation. _

_Unfortunately that was not an option available to him and the present situation demanded his full attention. Now that he was no longer a captive of the Filpots or a different sort of captive of Ruthy's dubious pleasures, Balthier was able to order his thoughts with his usual dexterity and swiftness. He had questions, many questions. _

_Thoroughly sickened by the whole affair, and employing a certain cautiousness as he watched Aeneas covertly, Balthier gave his supposed friend a withering look and held out his hands for the bundle of clothing, snapping imperiously, _'Clothes, now please.'

_Aeneas handed over the clothing without further comment, which was further indication that he was truly shocked by the lengths Balthier was prepared to go both to save his own skin and to barter his soul for a future of his choosing, and then left so the other could dress in privacy. _

_Moving gingerly but swiftly (he may have ensured a dubious ally in Ruthy for future endeavours but it had not been without cost – his skin was marred with bite marks and scratches that made him long for a bath) Balthier dressed and then caught sight of himself in the full length ebony framed mirror in the corner of the room. For a moment he just stared at his reflection._

_Thrown back at him was the image of a boy with a too thin body and a pale face. His eyes were wide and slightly glazed, an expression of shell-shocked nausea written large over the too young features. His brows twitched into a frown as Balthier glared at the unwelcome reminder of his own inexperience confronting him. _

_Most people feared growing old, or pinned for their lost youth, Balthier had a different problem; he had no time to be young, homesick or overwhelmed. He had made his own choices, drawn his own lines in the sand…..and yes, he thought as he tore his gaze from the mirror and threw a vicious look over his shoulder to the rumpled sheets and sweat stained pillows behind him, he had made his own bed and now had to lie in it. _

_Resolve restored, though he still felt vaguely sickened by himself, he straightened his shoulders and turned away towards the door and it was then that something caught his eye. Something made of marble and granite and brass. A figurine of a bird with furled wings incongruously resting upon his pillow; the Phoenix, the Landis Phoenix that he had lost in the hills of Chantilier's Rest when the Filpots ambushed him._

_How in the name of all the gods had it ended up in Ruthy's bed?_

_Without conscious thought Balthier moved to the bed and took up the unsightly and decidedly peculiar ornament, hefting it in his hand experimentally, half expecting the thing to be no more than a figment of his own imagination. As his hand closed around the statuette he felt a spark of……._something_ shiver through him. A tingle like static, a thrill like a draught of ice cool spring water when one is terribly parched; his breath caught in his chest and his eyes fluttered closed. Distantly he fancied he could hear an eagle's cry._

_Of course that made absolutely no sense. He was inside the docked Strahl (not his yet – but he still lived in hope) and there were no caged birds in here. Still, the presence of the Phoenix, inexplicable as it may be, was still an immense relief and Balthier was too much the pragmatist to question an inexplicable but good thing. He knew with almost religious certainty that the balance would be restored before long and some manner of calamitous and inexplicable bad thing would happen soon enough. _

_He ran the fingers of his free hand over the cool carven visage of the Phoenix's beak and proud avian face. _

_Balthier smiled; it was a sharp, slanted flash of teeth. An exhilarating, wild and purely carefree expression; it was the smile of a bird of prey. Staring down at the ugly mantle-piece ornament in his hands Balthier chuckled as a cool wind of clarity breezed through his thoughts. Under his fingers the Landis Phoenix shifted position, metal and stone moving like living flesh. The proud head of the bird lifted, the beak opened on an imperious cry and the wings unfurled._

_Tilting his own chin, sly smirk still in place, Balthier turned and left Ruthy's chamber, the Phoenix poised and waiting in his fist. Although in retrospect he should have questioned the impossibility of seeing stone and metal move like a liquid dream under his hands, for some reason Balthier did not find anything altogether that strange about it. It made perfect sense that the Phoenix should move - or at least it did at the time. _

_Aeneas was waiting for him in the main corridor of the Strahl (beloved Strahl – not his yet, but soon enough he would be master of her, he repeated like a mantra in his thoughts as he passed through the vessels corridors). Still smirking Balthier strolled up to him, the Landis Phoenix swinging loosely in his grip._

'Balthier mate, Ruthy said to…..'

_His expression did not shift a hair as he came abreast with Aeneas, who was conceivably the closest thing to a friend he had ever had and maybe ever would. Still Balthier did not hesitate as he swung the Phoenix up and smashed the statuette lightly into the side of Aeneas' head. _

'Bal – what - wait!'

_The other man fell more out of fright than genuine pain (Balthier hadn't hit him that hard at all) and crashed against the Strahl's corridor wall. He staggered losing his footing and falling to his backside, legs striking out against the opposing wall in the narrow passageway between the sleeping quarters and the main cabin. Aeneas looked up at him with wide, hugely startled green eyes as Balthier straddled him and took up a fistful of the other man's shirt, hauling him bodily back to his feet._

'Hmm, indeed, tell me what dear Ruthy said, Aeneas. In fact, while you are doing so you can explain to me how long, exactly, you have been working with her against Remus – and me, for that matter.'

_Not giving Aeneas time to recover from his shock, Balthier slammed him face first into the corridor wall, the impact reverberating over the metal walls with a resounding dull thunder. He braced the man against the wall with one arm against his neck and tightened his grip on the Phoenix. _

'Balthier I don't know what you mean; I'm not working against you. Balthier really, let me go now.'

_He struggled but like so many people failed to realise just how strong Balthier was, despite his slenderness. It was a strength that came more from will than physique, and in terms of pure strength of character Aeneas could not compete with his friend. Bright enough to know that fighting would only be to his detriment Aeneas stopped struggling and attempted to make an appeal to his friend's more rational side._

'It's the drugs those bounty hunters gave you……you are delirious, you know me Balthier; it's Aeneas.'

_Balthier sighed impatiently, _'Yes, Aeneas, I'm well aware of who you are, thank you. I'm suspicious not dim-witted.'

_Aeneas squirmed but Balthier had too good a grip on him, using his body to enforce the hold, Balthier pressed the pointy and hard edges of the Phoenix into the small of Aeneas' back, over his kidney. _

_Balthier was not particularly aggressive, or at least not inclined to violence over much, that was why when he chose to be violent the strategy was eminently more effective. However he did not enjoy violence and certainly had no intention of truly harming Aeneas. _

_Still he had had a profoundly unpleasant time of it these last however many days and the suspicions percolating in his brain required answers post haste, unfortunately for Aeneas he was best placed to provide those answers and Balthier was disinclined to be gentle in his questioning. _

_On the other hand, Balthier would concede, if pressed, that there were a number of things happening to and around him that he did not fully understand, adding certain credence to Aeneas' suggestion that he might be slightly more on edge than usual._

'As to the rest of it, perhaps I am delirious, hmm?' _He mused, still holding his friend pinned against the cold metal wall of the dormant Strahl._

'Perhaps there is a perfectly good reason for why you and Ruthy, of all people, came to retrieve me from those bounty hunters, and how it was that you were able to track me down in the first place.'

_Balthier purred mildly as he jammed the Phoenix a little harder into the other man's kidney, _'Perhaps discovering my deranged father has put a bounty on my head has made me unaccountably paranoid, and in fact it is not at all the case that you have been deceiving me all along?'

_Watching Aeneas' face in profile from so close, Balthier could see the minute changes of expression reflected thereupon. Aeneas' face ran the gamut from uncomprehending alarm, to anger at his treatment to a sick sort of defeat. Balthier smiled tightly, Aeneas had no stamina whatsoever, and he truly was not much of a liar._

'It is not what you think, Balthier.' _Aeneas closed his eyes, his tone resigned. The other man was intelligent enough to know his own limits; he knew well that Balthier could out-think him under any circumstances with ease even if he was somewhat mentally unhinged at the present time. _

_Reaching to retrieve Aeneas' Danjago dagger from the sheath on his hip, Balthier pulled the weapon free and stepped away from his friend. Carefully the other man turned around to face him, his eyes fixing first on his own dagger held against him and then to the Landis Phoenix Balthier clutched in his other hand. Aeneas frowned._

'How – I thought you had lost it?'

_Balthier smiled coldly, '_So did I, apparently however, the Phoenix had other ideas.'

_Almost internally Blathier shivered at his own words, and again the echo of a bird of prey's fierce hunting cry ran through his mind accompanied by the phantom caress of a blustery gale. He shook his head minutely to clear it; he just did not have time to worry over the how and the wherefore right now._

'The Phoenix isn't the issue right now.' _He stared Aeneas down,_ 'Tell me,' _he began silkily_, 'what is it, precisely, that is not as I think it is, hmm?'

_Aeneas sighed, swiping a hand through his rich auburn hair, _'It's….well, you know how I came into the sky pirate fraternity don't you? Ruthy found me, back in Archades, she's the reason I ended up a pirate.' _Aeneas shrugged awkwardly, _'She likes being around nice looking lads, makes her feel attractive or something I'd wager.'

_Balthier rolled his eyes and waved the hand that held the dagger, making an impatient circular movement, _'Yes, I'm well aware of Ruthy's predilections believe me, and your history, none of that explains the current situation however.'

_Aeneas sighed yet again, deeply reluctant and Balthier found the noise both highly contrived and irritating, _'Ruthy got me in with Remus, I was supposed to spy on him for her, but then you came along - a _Bunansa – _and a better pirate than I am.'

_The look Aeneas shot Balthier was part jealously and part tacit apology, _'Ruthy wanted me to spy on both of you then. We both assumed you had been sent by Nylous to kill Remus, but instead of simply allowing you to do our work for us, Ruthy…..'

'Wanted to use me to settle a score with more than just Remus?' _Balthier finished for him dryly when Aeneas trailed off. The other young man nodded reluctantly._

'I swear on any god you want me to, or on my favourite body part, I did not have anything to do with the bounty on you.' _Aeneas told him earnestly._

'I like you Balthier, you need to learn to relax and I think you're slightly insane, but I like you a lot more than I do that she-hag Ruthy.' _He shook his head mournfully, '_I owe her though, and she's the sort of woman who can be very…..creative…about how she collects on her debts. It's just business,' _he shrugged apologetically again, _'You know how it works in our vocation.'

'I am flattered you hold me in such high esteem,' _Balthier drawled ironically and sighed as the substance of Aeneas' spectacularly bad duplicity became apparent to him. _'I suppose when it became apparent I had been apprehended by bounty hunters and thus would not be able to make the trade with MaryBelle, it was merely an opportunity too good to miss to undermine Remus' position, hmm?'

_Aeneas shook his head as he pushed off the wall slightly and adjusted the lapels of his velvet coat, trying to regain his equilibrium. His expression was genuinely perplexed, however, as he spoke, _'Gods above mate, when you just vanished into thin air in that tavern I thought I'd lost my mind.' _His expression clouded, his green eyes confused, as he remembered the moment Balthier had disappeared. _

'Once I realised you and the Phoenix had really vanished I went to Ruthy, that's true, and yes, it occurred to me that with you and the Phoenix gone Ruthy could use that to make Remus look weak and I suggested that to her, because as I said, I owe her, but I swear my friend, I was trying to persuade her to help me find you the whole time.'

'Hmm, which is why you will never be very much of a sky pirate,' _Balthier drawled as he handed the dagger back to Aeneas hilt first. After a moment's hesitation and the slightest of wry smiles Aeneas' reached for his knife and re-sheathed it. '_Had our positions been reversed I would have left you to your own devices without a second's thought.'

'I'm well aware of that, mate.' _A twinkle of the old Aeneas mischief returned to his eyes, _'you are one cold blooded bastard, you are Balthier.' _He smirked stifling a snort of laughter, _'you'd have to be to survive a night with Ruthy.'

'I'm not going to dignify that with a reply,' _Balthier told him superciliously as he turned and started walking towards the exit to the Strahl. Aeneas fell into step alongside._

'I'm going to assume Ruthy ordered you to keep me onboard while she returned to Remus with news of my unfortunate demise and the loss of the Phoenix, hm?'

_Aeneas was silent for a beat too long, _'Something like that, yes.'

_Balthier stopped and frowned, turning back to face Aeneas. He had been operating under the hastily cobbled together assumption that, firstly, Aeneas was ultimately harmless and ineffectual as a threat and that Ruthy, albeit a very real threat, could be controlled to suit his own purposes using the foundations he had laid down last night. Secondly, he had assumed that Ruthy would use his absence as an opportunity to make Remus appear weak (and profoundly foolish having trusted the Phoenix to Balthier in the first instance) in front his own people. Perhaps as a means to further her own attempt at a coup, but something in Aeneas' tone made it seem somewhat more serious. _

'Indeed, if she is not trying to use my supposed death to undermine Remus what is she trying to do?'

_Aeneas' expression, waxen and hesitant, made Balthier's gut tighten, _'Remus is meeting with Mary-Belle at the tavern in an hour.' _Aeneas began slowly, in grim fashion,_ 'Ruthy told him that she'd put you into hiding after we discovered the bounty on you and Remus is expecting you to turn up with the Phoenix for the exchange.'

_Balthier felt the blood leave his face in a cold wash as his eyebrows clawed up his forehead making a bid for the sky, _'And when I fail to arrive with said item….?'

_Aeneas met his eyes with his own bottle green gaze, _'Mary-Belle and her associates slaughter the lot of 'em, all Remus' crew and Ruthy takes over.'

_For split second Balthier could barely countenance the words or their meaning; then it came to him, Ruthy's plan, his own inadvertent involvement, and what would become of his own aspirations should she achieve her goal. For a split second he was almost impressed but he did not have time for dispassionate appreciation for the woman's ruthlessness, especially when it stood to lose him everything he hoped for._

_Without a word to Aeneas Balthier turned on his heel and began to run as fast as he could out of the private airship docking bay and towards the port of Chantilier's Rest and the fated meeting in the Tavern._

'Balthier - wait, what are you doing? This could all be for the best......don't you want Remus dead?'

_Aeneas called after him, but Balthier ignored him. The Phoenix still clamped in his palms, the weight of which should have been an impediment, but strangely the ornament, despite its cumbersome and awkward shape, did not slow him down at all. With the Phoenix in hand he ran like the wind chasing after the fleeting ghosts of his own future; he could not allow Remus to die, not yet, or he would never make his cherished dreams come true. _

_As he ran, his thoughts ran faster but neither was quite fast enough. He had no idea how he could save Remus and his own secret schemes, all he knew was that he had to find a way in something less than an hour or he would surely be dead by dawn. _

_And in his mind the eagle called._

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_A/N: and here I am again.....I'm planning a bit of a shake up of the status quo in this story from next chapter on......I have the sneaking suspicion Fran has something she wants to say!_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen: 707o.v. An Interlude with a Goddess; the breaking storm**

_A/N: Hello everyone. Firstly I would like to welcome to the fold and thank everyone who reviewed this story without logging in (which meant I couldn't send a thank you in person) it's lovely to hear from so many new people. Secondly I would like to apologise for how long this chapter took to finish; this chapter is a pretty radical departure from the previous chapters - it will make sense eventually I promise, but well, I suppose you'll have to read it to see what I'm on about. Feedback always appreciated._

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Fran was perturbed. The outward signs of such were barely apparent to anyone who was not a keen observer or one who possessed an extensive knowledge of Fran's body language and facial expressions. Thankfully for Fran the only person capable of such discernment was currently fast asleep in his bed.

The constant twitching of Fran's left ear, the black tufted tip flicking minutely but almost continuous, was both a symptom of and further cause of her internal agitation. Perched demurely on the foot of Balthier's bed, Fran tapped the long nails of her left hand against her crossed right knee; another almost unconscious sign of annoyance.

Balthier, wrapped up in dreams, sighed in his sleep and captured a fistful of pillow in his grip tugging them a little lower. A flickering frown passed over his brow for a moment before his expression smoothed once more; the momentary consternation of his expression no more than a cloud across a flawless sky. It was only when sleep held him in thrall that his painful youth became obvious.

To Fran most humes seemed young and she had ceased to really note that immaturity; it only made her feel old in comparison after all. Still it occurred to her, as it had done once or twice before, that she could not imagine Balthier gaining the complacency and dignity of comfortable old age.

She knew that he would die young; his brilliance extinguished in fire and fury. Infirmity and the poison of time would not be his undoing. Fran had known this the moment she had laid eyes on this hume before her. He was too sharp, too fast, too full of life and vitality to survive for long. He was a shooting star; a trailblazer who would not live to enjoy the Ivalice he would transform.

The Viera Fran was no longer had seen this clearly.

Fran's right ear began to twitch in counterpoint to her left and she, in almost irritated fashion, shook the fall of her hair back behind her shoulders. The tremor of agitation travelled down her body to her leg and she began to bounce her right foot.

Fran frowned, her nose starting to twitch. It was not Viera to be so….so…..restless. It was not Viera to feel such a quandary of dissatisfaction. The very air of the cabin, condensed and redolent with the myriad trapped scents within the confines of the Strahl, brushed over her skin making Fran tense with discomfort. Under her skin something large and hot pulsed within her.

Her ears twitched; she could hear the cries of eagles and the voice of a goddess.

Humes died; it was the nature of things. Balthier raced towards his own demise with mad abandon, never knowing what it was he reached for. Fran did know; she had always known. It was only since Lemures, since witnessing the madness and grief of the deranged Mydia a child of the Viera herself, that Fran had realised that she _cared_.

Life and death was a constant, staid cycle. All Viera knew this; it was the way of the Wood and the teachings of the Green Way. Fran knew this but the goddess in her ear would not accept. The wind in the trees is not affected by the falling leaves. The winds above do not care for the laws of the Wood.

His death would be her end. Fran had once been content to accept this. Over fifty years of walking the paths of the humes and she did not truly care for her own mortality. Her life had been little more than a sequence of events, a quest for knowledge, ever since she had left the Wood; dying had meant little to her.

Fran bit and began to chew on her bottom lip, a profoundly un-Viera action. Her ears continued to quiver constantly and her nails started to kneed at the sheets at the foot of the bed.

The eagle cried once more. The goddess in the sky whispered sedition and Fran did listen.

She was Fran, once of the Viera but Viera no longer. She was Fran who had chased a shooting star wherever his will took him. She was Fran who rode the skies with a child of the wide blue horizon.

It was only now, with a goddess in her ear, that she realised she had found what she had searched for. The reason she had turned her back on the Wood and the Green Way all those many years before the advent of _his_ birth.

The goddess smiled and ruffled her feathers in a whisper of sound that was not sound. Fran's ears twitched to hear it.

Under the covers Balthier reached for the hem of the bed sheets and tried to draw them closer (Fran, in her restless clawing, had tugged them away from him). Releasing the folds of sheets Fran noticed that her claws had shredded the thin fabric; her frown deepened and she gnawed a little harder on her bottom lip.

The goddess enfolded Fran's thoughts in the curl of her wings; outside the confines of the Strahl the wind began to sing. A storm gathered somewhere far beyond. Balthier, asleep, shivered and frowned under the blankets. There were dark clouds forming in his dreams.

Almost absently Fran leaned over the bed to pull the sheets up closer around him; she knew how he liked to cocoon himself in the warmth of those sheets. He was so very child-like in his slumber. Balthier sighed in satisfaction once his bedding was returned to him. The slightest smile touched his lips as he spoke from within his dreams.

'……..hmm, thank you Fran……'

Fran accepted the thanks without comment; she could feel the ghost of feathers running down her bare arms.

Many people would describe Fran as an enigmatic, insightful but rather passive being. She was seemingly content to let a hume many decades her junior make decisions for her, after all. It could even be argued that Fran was not so much an active participant in her own existence but instead a mildly disinterested spectator.

What was it that truly motivated her? Why would she be content to let a short-lived hume dictate the course of her life? Many people had asked themselves those questions (though had never dared ask Fran herself) and those multitude had decided, for the most part, that Fran simply must not care. That was the only reason she could be so passive, surely?

All those people were wrong, of course, but Fran was not in the habit of correcting the misassumptions of the humes. Even Viera did not have lifetime enough for that.

The gathering storm grew closer and the voice of the wind louder. A goddess stretched her wings around the Strahl. The horizon beckoned and somewhere beyond tomorrow waited. All things must change and change again.

Under the cowl of the sheets Balthier continued to fidget in his sleep; as restless in slumber as he was in his waking hours. His dreams were strange indeed, this night. He vaguely wished that he could make the eagles stop their screaming. It was highly distracting.

The goddess flexed her wings; beyond the Strahl lightning scorched the sky. The storm crept closer over racing clouds of black. Tomorrow rose on the horizon. Fran's ears twitched; she could hear it all.

Fran watched the minute changes of expression across her partner's sleeping visage; the fleeting suggestion of dreams that chased each other across the sharp angles and planes of his face. She watched avidly and had anyone been present to witness they would have seen nothing whatsoever of the impartial or passive in Fran's exotic eyes.

Thunder joined the lightning; a hundred thousand wing beats crashing over the whole of Ivalice. Somewhere waiting beyond the present time the sun longed to rise and a goddess with it.

Over fifty years of wandering the roads of the hume, Fran had endured. Fifty years of learning all the ways of Ivalice. It was only now that she came to accept that she had found what it was she had sought all that time. Fran knew now what her purpose was.

It was not her purpose to be Viera. It was not her purpose to have a purpose. It was her fate to be Fran and Fran was what she was. She was Fran who had found a hume with the spirit of a shooting star; she was Fran who chased that star across the stage of Ivalice.

_Yet if the star falls, if he dies, what then for Fran?_ Fran's ears twitched; the goddess' voice was the roll of thunder and the spear strikes of lightning. Acceptance was not the way of the sky, which changed constant as night to day and back again.

_Why must the star fall, Fran? Why should he fall when the sky is endless; when you and I together could keep him aloft?_

Under the weight of Fran's gaze Balthier stretched under the sheets, reaching towards wakefulness. Fran knew, because she could read the rhythms of his body as clearly as words on a page that he knew, deep in his subconscious, that it was she who watched him and he sought to join her in consciousness.

The eagle cried once more and dawn shivered on the horizon.

The twitching in her limbs calmed fractionally as Fran breathed deeply, sampling the scents in the room. In sympathy or synergy Balthier took a deep breath in sleep as well, but did not quite wake.

Sleeping places had always paradoxically attracted and repulsed Fran. They were filled with such personal and intimate contrasts in scent; such a culmination of sensations for her acute nose to detect that even now Fran had to steel herself against being overwhelmed every time she spent the night in a Hume inn.

(When she and Balthier had reclaimed the Strahl from the Hume children, Vaan and Penelo, she had insisted that the whole ship be carefully aired out before she had felt fully comfortable within its confines once more – Balthier had acquiesced without complaint).

Holding her breath and the scents captured within her, Fran's mind identified each scent in turn, recognising the familiar and categorising the unfamiliar until she could focus only on the scent she desired.

The goddess closed her wings a little more firmly around the Strahl.

Balthier rolled over in the bed, mumbling something unintelligible as he fought somnolently with his blankets and flopped onto his back. One arm curled up over his head and the other came to rest across his torso as he momentary grew still. Still holding his scent within her Fran watched the jumping of his eyelashes against his cheeks.

Fran did not dream. Balthier, in contrast, never stopped dreaming even while awake. Fran did not know ambition and Balthier burned inside with wild schemes and aspirations. Fran had little passion of her own; Balthier was pure motion and energy. Fran had no purpose without the Wood and the Green Way but Balthier gave her a piece of a legend in the making.

Many called him selfish; a mercurial rake who had not the strength of character to commit to any being or creed. Fran knew those detractors to be blind fools for she knew the truth.

He lived for her, and she for him.

To a hume the blinking opening of Balthier's eyes at that moment would have seemed sudden and abrupt. To Fran, who had scented the change in Balthier from dream to wakefulness, it was not at all unexpected. Once his eyes focused on Fran sitting at the foot of his bed Balthier raised one eyebrow inquiringly, not remotely perturbed by her presence.

'How now Fran, all is well I hope?' His voice held the thickness of sleep within but the drowsy welcome in those words was genuine.

'All is well,' she agreed although that was not strictly true. She was but deafened by the chorus of eagles and the gathering storm.

'Hmm good,' Balthier shifted and rose smoothly at the waist to sit up against the headboard, leaning over to light the crystal lamp wall sconce and letting a diffuse golden glow fill the close shadows of the cabin.

'To what do I owe the honour of this nocturnal visit?' His lips then twitched in a wry half smile. 'Or is this merely revenge for my less than chivalrous invasion of your bunk in Bhujerba?'

Fran's right ear twitched; Balthier being the previously mentioned expert on Fran's every move noted the action with a quirked eyebrow, 'Fran?'

She dropped her eyes, failing to meet his gaze. This was almost an unheard of occurrence. Balthier shifted nervously but made no move to touch her for it was not their way. For this Fran was grateful; her skin ached all over and the slow steady pulse of her heart began to speed up. The heat of the scents in the room swirled in her nostrils and her head reeled. She shivered involuntary. The goddess continued to wrap her in feathered wings of thought.

'Fran, I am beginning to think all is not well, after all.' Balthier's voice was warm, but not as warm as his scent, which caressed her senses brushing with almost tangible weight over her sensitised skin.

The Eagle cried and Balthier blinked looking around him for the source of the noise, as if expecting to find a live eagle suddenly ensconced in his cabin.

Fran reached down to the floor and the space between the bed; her long fingers closed around the object she had placed there when she arrived in his room and she lifted it to the light.

'Oh bloody hell,' Balthier groaned as his own eyes took in the shape and form of the bird statuette made of stone and metal that Fran had found, residing on her table in her own cabin, when she had retired to bed that night.

'Where was it this time?' Balthier asked resignedly reaching for the Phoenix. Fran did not immediately release the object however and instead held tight to it.

'Within my own chambers; knew you that it was close?'

'It appeared in my trunk the day the brats and his honour the imposter came for a visit,' Balthier drawled dismissively gesturing negligently to the piece of furniture he referred to, 'but disappeared so soon after that I had begun to wonder if I merely imagined the thing.'

Balthier regarded her keenly for a moment. He knew something was amiss; the very air seemed to hold a charge and he thought he could hear thunder on the wind. If there was a storm coming it could change their plans. He frowned at the Phoenix held in Fran's hands.

'So the blasted thing has started playing its games with you now too, has it? I wonder why?'

There was something _different _about Fran, a tension in her lithe frame reminiscent of how she became when affected by Mist. Balthier tried to order his suspicions into plans but could not concentrate; the bloody eagle was screaming again.

'Convenient indeed that the Phoenix should return now, when you have need of her power,' Fran murmured softly her gaze still roaming the dull shadows of the floor, 'though I imagine her movements come as little surprise to you.'

Balthier was quiet for a handful of heartbeats, 'I had my suspicions regarding the object. I remember the Phoenix's eccentricities from the last time I had the dubious honour of its custodianship,' he admitted cautiously and Fran could scent the curiosity, wariness, and slight concern behind his words. 'However I am surprised that it chose to pop up in your chamber….and that it came so soon on the heels of recent events.'

She looked up at him then, 'Know you not what power you play with?'

He gave her a caustic smile, 'Fran I never know what power I play with, that is half the fun of the game.'

Fran looked at him and he looked back at her. Slowly the smile fell from his lips. Inside the hollow of her ribcage Fran's heart beat an ancient rhythm. Slowly, not taking her eyes from Balthier, Fran placed the Phoenix on the floor once more.

'Indeed, you do not.' Fran told him seriously, almost coldly.

Balthier blinked, questions forming behind his eyes and lips parting to speak them. Fran seized the sides of his face between her two clawed hands. Under the bed the Phoenix opened her wings and distantly an Eagle cried upon the winds once more.

Balthier frowned just catching the tail end of the proud bird's scream. He thought he'd best to say something as Fran did not seem quite herself. Still as he met Fran's worryingly intense regard he found that he could not find a word to say. Fran continued to hold his head immobile between her palms. Balthier stared wordlessly into those ruby eyes.

The Phoenix, all but forgotten under the bed, continued to wait with the patience of the gathering storm on the horizon.

Fran kissed Balthier full on the lips. Balthier lost his breath. The Phoenix vanished, her work complete. Somewhere in Ivalice the sun rose on a new day and painted the sky a thousand shades of rose. The dawn flocks began their chorus and tomorrow began.

The eagle screamed triumphantly and a goddess laughed.

Beyond the confines of the Strahl's interior birds stitched across the morning glory sky and the wind sang her ancient aria of change and inconstancy. Inside the Strahl none of that mattered. Inside the Strahl everything had changed already.

Inside the Strahl the once Viera kissed her hume. The kiss lasted quite some time. The day and its intricacies past by; the occupants of the Strahl paid the passing sun no mind.

The hours fled, the wind changed its course and the Phoenix rose. The storm on the horizon broke; everything was different now.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen: 702o.v: Chantilier's Rest**

_Balthier came to such an abrupt halt in his furious mad dash run that he tripped and had to brace his arms against a near by wall to stop himself falling flat on his face. The impact as his palms smacked into brickwork slammed through his arms and up into his shoulders. _

_Balthier did not notice; he did not even notice as the Landis Phoenix dropped onto his foot as well. Aeneas caught up with him as him as he fought to regain his breath. _

_It was all over; two solid years of humiliation, subterfuge, indentured servitude, pain and determined, agonised patience was all to come to naught. Remus was likely already dead and the gods alone knew that under any other circumstances Balthier would have been genuflecting in thanks at such news. Not now though, not when the circumstances had slipped completely out of his control. How was he ever to be free now?_

_Damn it all but it was not fair! Balthier slammed his fist into the side of the building to punctuate the thought and did not notice as the rough brickwork scraped open his knuckles; in fact the jagged spikes of slight pain were most welcome and Balthier ground his fist harder into the wall. It was bloody well not fair, damn it! _

_Such thoughts were highly uncharacteristic for one such as Balthier. He had long decided that if life was palpably unfair and fate a capricious minx then he would simply ensure that he was even more capricious to rob destiny and chance of their advantage. Decrying the injustice of circumstance so far out of his meagre command as to be laughable was the action of a child. A frightened, frustrated boy not yet out of his adolescence that often looked into the mirror and saw a stranger he did not much like staring back at him. _

_Balthier closed his eyes, thoughts running around and around in panicked, helpless circles in the tight enclosure of his mind; he pressed his forehead against the brickwork. There was nothing he could do now. He could not fix all that had gone wrong; he could not _think_ he's way out of this mess. He did not know what to do and he was quite simply, scared._

_Bugger all, if only he could turn back time!_

'Balthier….mate….look it's…..' _Aeneas hesitated. Considering that Balthier spent a vast amount of his time suffering the abuses of Remus' distrust and, in Aeneas' opinion, jealousy, he had thought that his friend would be more than happy to sit back and let Remus get what was coming to him even if he wasn't prepared to do the actual deed. Actually he had expected that Balthier would be more than happy to bump Remus off this mortal coil. Aeneas had not, could not have, expected Balthier to panic and try to rescue Remus of all things. Gods knew he hadn't even thought Balthier was capable of panic and as for rescuing Remus…..well it was safe to say he was completely out to sea right now. _

'This is what we wanted, right?' _He began carefully, forging his way ahead through the metaphoric dark,_ 'Remus dead, you and me free to be the pirates we want to be, that's what this game is all about, right mate?' _Aeneas reached out to touch Balthier's shoulder just lightly. He was instantly shrugged away._

'You don't understand, Aeneas. You just do not understand.'_ Balthier's head hung between his shoulders as he braced his arms against the wall. _

_Above their heads tired bunting flapped dispassionately, left over from some long gone celebration. A slight, briny sea breeze shivered over the linens drying on the washing lines strung between buildings that formed a latticework above and obscured the stars in the darkening sky. Aeneas had never heard Balthier sound quite so despondent._

'Well no,' _Aeneas admitted, he had never seen the point in denying ignorance, especially as he would only be caught out in the end, _'I don't understand. You hate Remus, why does his death fill you with woe?'

_Balthier turned around then, pushing off the wall so he could then collapse against it once more; his face was shined with sweat and his chest was still heaving from his breakneck dash. _'I don't hate Remus; emotion has absolutely nothing to do with any of this.'

'You don't hate Remus?' _Aeneas parroted somewhat ridiculously. He didn't pretend to understand how his friend's thought processes worked (trying to do so would probably lead to the development of the same psychosis Balthier had in spades) but he usually had at least a flavour of his friend's motivations. Now he found himself completely at a loss. _'Are you sure? Most people would think you had justification to hate a man whom treats you like a slave and regularly tries to kill you.'

_Balthier actually smiled tiredly at that, some of the tension leaving his body. He shook his head, _'It is business, Aeneas, just business. Remus knows Nylous sent me to spy on him. He also knows that I'll see him dead if I can. If our roles were reversed, and gods willing they one day will be, I would do exactly the same thing.' _Balthier paused before adding musingly, _'Though I would do so with considerably more style.'

_Aeneas carefully considered his response to that. Personally he did not think Balthier would suffer a rival or a potential threat to live so close to him. No, Aeneas rather thought that Balthier would do away with any rivals he might encounter with perfunctory haste and then go and dispatch whoever sent the assassin after him in the first place. Balthier played games, yes, but he did not tolerate others playing games with him. Still, suggesting to Balthier that he knew him to be a cold-blooded and ruthless bastard was likely not conducive to a long and mutually beneficial friendship (or conducive to a long life) so Aeneas decided to ignore the statement altogether. _

'It's not like you to just throw in the towel, mate.' _He settled for eventually._

_Balthier snorted sourly and slouched down against the wall until he was sitting in despondent dishabille. The fact that he did not even seem to care that he was sitting on dirty cobblestones in new trousers was indicative of his black mood. He began to pluck at his cuffs, actually pulling threads of embroidering from the cloth._

'I do not know what to do, Aeneas.' _He looked up angrily as if in outrage that he was forced to make such a confession. Aeneas, who was a young man who often had no clue what to do and had become inured to the indignity, nevertheless had sympathy for his friend. Balthier always moved through life with a certain bloody minded confidence in his own ability to outthink anyone and conquer any situation. It had to hurt to face the reality that he was as helpless as any other mere mortal. _

'It's called being a hume, Balthier. Most of us poor sods without your inherited genius go through most of our lives not knowing what to do. You get used to it after a while.' _Aeneas sat down beside his friend who gave him a filthy look that any Gentry in Highgarden Terrace would have been proud of. _

'If you have nothing of any use to say, Aeneas, please leave and let me think in peace.'

_Aeneas grinned; that sounded much more like his friend. _'Explain to me what it is you don't know what to do.' _He said instead of taking up the suggestion._ 'While you're at it, explain to me why you think you need to do anything in the first place. Remus dead is a good thing, Balthier. He's a right bastard, remember?'

_Balthier sighed and clasped his hands over his drawn up knees, deliberately stopping his harassment of his sleeves as he struggled to regain his composure. _'Remus has to die in a manner and time of my choosing; if he doesn't I can't control the fallout. Surely even you can see that?'

'Actually no, I don't. In fact I'm pretty confident most people wouldn't. Why do you need to control how and why and when the bastard dies? Isn't it enough that he does die?'

_Balthier sighed once more (though this sigh sounded more irritated than depressed) and tilted his head back so that he looked blindly up at the sky. _'I'm not sure I can even answer that question anymore.' _He finally admitted. _'It all seemed a lot less……convoluted when I decided to leave Archades. I at least had confidence that I was doing the right thing back then.'

'The right thing?' _Aeneas spoke without thinking, _'Sorry mate, but it doesn't seem like that sort of moral consideration would bother you that much. I mean you did defraud the Judiciary treasury of thousands of Gil, stage a prison break, steal an airship and voluntarily agree to become a sky pirate, after all. You then set out to betray your new captain, who was also an ally in aforementioned criminal activity. Isn't it a bit late to be worrying about right and wrong?'

_Balthier looked at him for a long moment. It was not a friendly look. Then his lips twitched at the corners and to Aeneas' astonishment Balthier burst out laughing. He did not subside for some moments in which time Aeneas wondered if perhaps his highstrung friend had finally lost his wits._

'Too true,' _Balthier smirked when he had sobered somewhat, _'Thank you Aeneas for putting things in perspective.' _Balthier shook his head and reached out to clasp the Landis Phoenix in his hands studying the statuette meditatively._

'I cannot outrun time. Too many unforeseen events have come up out of nowhere and there is not a bloody thing I can do to regain the advantage. I shall just have to see things through as they are and wait for a chance to enact my plan with Ruthy instead of Remus. Damn it all though,' _he added with sudden vehemence that then ended in a scowl and shudder, _'that woman scares the bloody blue blazes out of me.'

_Aeneas blinked, _'Oh bloody hell. I just thought, damn it all, with Remus gone Ruthy will be in charge.' _Aeneas peered at Balthier. _'That's what has you so worked up, isn't it mate? You know you can't control Ruthy like you can Remus. That she-hag is even more a raving loon than you are.'

_Balthier paused in his fondling of the Phoenix, his fingers freezing in the motion of absently stroking over the contours of the statuette's beak. _'I am not a loon.' _He snapped venomously. _

_Aeneas raised his hands in a placating gesture. He did not really wish to be brained by that statue again and he knew that Balthier was rather _sensitive _when it came to questions of his mental faculty. _

'In any regard, it is not that I cannot manipulate Ruthy so much as I would rather have nothing to do with the woman.' _Balthier added fastidiously fiercely repressing thoughts of the previous night's carnal endeavours in the name of self-preservation. Surviving was all and everything, but still, there were some things that made death seem like a welcome escape…..Ruthy's bed was one of those, he had learned. _

'No, what irks me is that I cannot do anything about this bloody situation to make it suit my purposes. Ruthy has seized the advantage by using _my_ misfortune to achieve her goals. I take that as a personal affront.' _Balthier slammed the base of the Phoenix against the cobbles in frustration hoping the act would cover the tremor in his hands and the hide the truth from his friend._

_There was more to it all than trifling insult or a loss of control (though Balthier feared losing control terribly). Such words as he had spoken did not speak to the fear he had of what would happen should Remus die or, gods damn it, if he was dead already. He might loathe Remus for the abuses he had inflicted upon him but Balthier also knew that he had chosen this path; he was, at least in part, complicit in his own slavery. That slavery had been to Remus, no one else. He feared what would become of him now without the dubious shield of Remus' paranoid attention._

_Balthier blinked as a most unexpected thought flickered through his mind. In a strange way he almost respected Remus. He was a monstrous thug but he was at least consistent. He was also, possibly, the greatest airship pilot in all Ivalice and Balthier would forgive a great deal simply in light of that fact alone. Remus could fly and Balthier longed to fly; Remus could teach him but only if he lived. _

_If Remus died at Ruthy's hand what would Nylous do? Would he consider the task he had imparted to Balthier completed - after all it was Balthier's entirely involuntary kidnapping and subsequent failure to attend a previously scheduled appointment that had offered Ruthy the opportunity to kill her lover. Most likely, considering Balthier was half convinced Nylous would be just as satisfied to see Balthier dead as Remus, the pirate king would simply demand that Balthier depose Ruthy in Remus' stead (mostly likely hoping that he would die in the attempt)._

_Balthier began to pluck at his sleeve once more; in some ways Ruthy was far more malleable than Remus. Ruthy was insane, Remus was just vicious and Balthier had more experience managing rampant insanity than simple cruelty, after all. On the other hand, Balthier was forced to concede he would sooner deal with viciousness than insanity. _

_Sadly it did not look like he had any say in the matter. Even if he and Aeneas had continued on to the meeting place where Mary-Belle and her gang would likely set upon Remus and kill him, what could Balthier possibly do about that except die right alongside the man he was supposed to betray in the first place?_

_That was why he had stopped running. There was nothing left to do, no way to salvage his dreams from the wreckage of these events. He could survive it, yes, but damn it he had worked too hard to start all over again. The thought of having to suffer under Ruthy's thumb made him almost physically ill. He could survive it, he could survive almost anything if it came to it; he simply did not _want_ to._

_The situation really was impossibly unfair; if only he had known in advance what would happen, things would have worked out so differently. Had he known about the Filpots, had he known in advance what these last few days would bring….ah, but things would have quite a different complexion on them now; yes, if only he could seize the hands of time and force them back…..then he could make something of value and profit out of this disaster._

_Balthier blinked. He thought he heard the hunting cry of an eagle over the muted roar of the surf and the sea. He looked up at the sky, but the sun had already set. No birds would be flying at this hour, and surely there were no eagles circling over the bay._

'Did you hear that?' _He asked Aeneas. His friend frowned at him. _

'Hear what?'

_A tingle ran through the tips of Balthier's fingers and down his palms. He looked down at the statuette in his hands. The metal and stone felt warm. He frowned. He was sure the bird's beak had not been open that wide mere moments earlier. An arc of static jumped from the statue to his fingers as he reached out for the bird's head. Once more he heard the wild, triumphant call of a bird of prey._

'Surely you heard that?' _He demanded jumping to his feet, the Phoenix almost surgically clamped to his hands. He scanned the sky frowning darkly. There was still no sign of any bird, or any aerial invader. The roar of the ocean beyond the bay sounded inexplicably loud and angry in his ears. The bird's shrieking tore through his mind once again and Balthier winced closing his eyes as the scream gouged at his senses. _

_The press of blood against his eyelids felt like the surge of tidal waves. There was a moment of incredible, monstrous pressure building within him and a sense of vertigo that left him reeling. Balthier gasped as it felt like the very ground beneath his feet had been wrenched out from under him. _

_Reaching out blinding as all Ivalice seemed to reform around him in a crush of noise and gale force winds, Balthier came back to awareness to find himself gripping the sides of a sticky, rough wood table. The warm, welcoming scent of ale and smoke and wood filled his nostrils and the sound of many voices talking in an enclosed space filled his ears. Blinking stupidly Balthier looked about him to find himself once more in the chantilier tavern, where days ago all his problems began when he spied two strangers affixing a bill to the notice board. _

_Stumbling to his feet Balthier walked in ungainly fashion to the railing of the mezzanine floor of the tavern were he was seated and he looked down over the rest of the tavern. He was not the most observant soul, Balthier would concede. Most people were not interesting enough for him to note them after all, but he felt almost certain that the same people in the tavern today had been in the tavern a few days before. For that matter was it not supposed to be evening….and why was _he_ in the tavern when his last recollection was sitting in an alley feeling sorry for himself?_

_Balthier looked down at the restful Phoenix, wings furled and head tucked against it's breast, that he still held in his hand. An entirely ludicrous and preposterous thought was trying to take root in his mind. He had not just travelled backwards in time; such things were impossible._

_Balthier stared at the Phoenix as he tried to make sense of what had just occurred; try as he might he could not find any other explanations for the situation he now found himself in. He watched, with a wary sort of anticipation as Aeneas (dressed differently than he had been moments before, but in identical fashion to how he had been attired two days ago) approached him holding in his hand a crumpled bill. _

_Gods above surely fate would not be so kind to him? He did not believe in wishes, let alone the granting thereof. _

'Well?' _He addressed Aeneas trying to sound fairly normal in tone and demeanour. _

'See for yourself.'

_Balthier, almost twitching with nerves, looked down at the bill. In an instant all the blood left his head at once and froze solid in his arteries. The breath caught in his chest and his lungs constricted. The writing emblazoned across the bill blurred before the run of his eyes as Balthier fought to maintain his composure. _

'This cannot be.' _He whispered the exact same words he had spoken before, but this time he spoke them for a very different reason as he looked down upon the bill spread out across the table._

_Upon the bill was a rather good pen sketch, reproduced via printing press, of his own face – or rather the face of the two years missing Ffamran Mid Bunansa. Balthier, faced with seemingly incontributable evidence that he had indeed somehow fallen backwards through time, found himself grinning; laughter, soft and oddly gleeful rolled free of his control._

'Err, mate, Balthier are you well?' _Aeneas of the past was staring at him in unconcealed concern but Balthier ignored him. _

_His spirits took flight to soar to the upper echelons and his mind raced feverishly as he realised that he was not beaten after all. He had asked for a miracle and somehow it had been granted. He did not even care to question the how or the why as he took the small flight of stairs down to the main floor of the tavern two at a time, a spring in his step. Aeneas trailed after him with hopeless and unheeded questions. _

'Where are we going? Balthier what are you going to do?'

_Balthier chuckled as he surged through the port. Suddenly the rules had changed; he had faced defeat but now found himself presented with unprecedented advantage. He knew what would come, perhaps before even his enemies knew. Oh yes, he cared not for the why or the how, all that he cared about was that, once more, he had a plan and a means to get everything he wanted._

'Where are we going?' _He repeated the question cheerfully, _'We are going to meet with the client, of course. Why wait for this eve when we have the Phoenix right now, hmm?'

_Balthier laughed almost giddily and hefted the object in question smiling beatifically upon it. He had the strangest feeling that this ugly statuette had much to do with these odd, but enormously beneficial, events. For just a moment he thought he heard the soft cooing of doves and felt the ghost of feathers across his thoughts, but he was far too pleased with himself to worry on such things._

'We are going to see Mary-Belle,' _Balthier continued, mind already racing ahead to spin advantage into victory_.

'Mary-Belle…..but mate, you can't go meeting her outside of the arranged time without telling Remus. He'll gut you like a trout.' _Aeneas argued, but as this was the Aeneas of two days prior and had no understanding of just what a mess Balthier had just escaped from, Balthier felt safe in ignoring him._

_Yes, Balthier smiled to himself, he could use this one miraculous event to win so many battles. Truly he had been blessed most unexpectedly and when he most needed the assistance. He smiled so brightly that people passing him in the streets turned to stare and many found themselves smiling in return quite despite their inclination. The attractive young man in the white cotton shirt's good humour was quite infectious. _

_Balthier chuckled again because he could not help it. He felt almost drunk and strangely light-hearted. Not at all like himself in fact and that thought should bother him but he was far too self-satisfied to let it._

'Balthier, mate, you've lost your head completely. Why the bloody blue blazes are you going to see that woman?' _Aeneas hurried to keep step with Balthier as he almost skipped along the cobbled streets, smiling at all he passed._

'I have a proposition for the lady that will be to the mutual advantage of all.' _Balthier explained breezily._

_Yes indeed, there was so much he could now achieve and so much he could gain…..and to think moments ago he had been languishing in the dulldrums of defeat and apathy. How strange to be so maudlin, when all he needed to do was make a wish and have it granted. Although Balthier had never been the sort to make wishes had he? No he had always made his own luck, hadn't he?_

_Hmmmm……..there was something wrong here, he thought, but couldn't quite put his finger on what._

_Should he not be worried about this bizarre turn of events? Should he not question why it was that he had been granted exactly what he needed out of nowhere without explanation……that was the sort of thing he would ordinarily question, wasn't it? _

_Momentarily the feel of feathers closing around his thoughts grew stronger and the happy sound of cooing more immediate as some part of him questioned he's strange good fortune and sort to fathom the reason for it. Balthier ignored the niggling doubts; swaddled as he was in cooing and feathers. He was happy, he was flying, that was all that mattered. _

_Why look a gift Chocobo in the mouth, after all? If magick and capricious fate wished to work for him for once he would not question it. No, Balthier was flying high indeed as strolled through Chantilier's Rest as proud as any king. All he dreamed of was once more in his hands and this time he would not allow the advantage to slip by him. _

_Without hesitation, without much consideration for anything at all in fact, he made his way towards the residence Mary-Belle and her people had co-opted during their stay in this port. _

_After a while he came to find the soft cooing in his ears almost soothing and the feel of feathers relaxing. It did not occur to him to wonder at the strange sensation any longer. Nor did he pay any heed to the Phoenix he held loose in his hand; it simply seemed natural to have it with him. He did not need to fret and ponder; all things would be as he wished them to be. He had nothing to worry about. _

_Above his head he heard a chorus of gulls cackled to one another; Balthier looked up and smiled to see them weave and twist in the sky. In his head the Phoenix cooed at him pleased with his pleasure as she busily wormed into his mind and soul. The Phoenix was happy, her host was happy and all was well. _

_Balthier, unaware of much that was happening to him and around him, resolved that whatever price he had to pay for this miraculous intervention he would gladly pay. He was flying once more and surely any payment in return was worth the boon, wasn't it? The Phoenix cooed in agreement, already under her spell Balthier did not notice. _


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen: 707o.v. At Large in Ivalice**

Balthier looked at his reflection in the mirror. His own eyes blinked back at him. He tapped the mother of pearl inlaid razor against the porcelain rim of the sink as he stared into the eyes of his reflection.

'Well, this is a fine to do, isn't it?' he murmured dryly, softly enough that no eavesdropper save a Viera would hear him through the closed door of the bathroom and even if Fran was listening she already knew of his various neurosis and so would refrain from comment.

Fran…..hmmm; he really did not know what he was to do about Fran. Perhaps for the first time ever Balthier actually regretted the nature of his partnership with her. Had they been different people, with a different, less perfect form of partnership, he could have simply taken a few days away from her to think things through. Alas Balthier was well aware that when he was away from Fran bad things tended to happen - usually to him - therefore absence would not be advisable.

Still, he was in no hurry to leave the bathroom either. There was something quite, well wrong might not be the correct word, but there was nevertheless something amiss with Fran and Balthier wanted to know what it was.

Once he plucked up the courage to confront her that was.

Despite the fact that it had become the most time consuming aspect of his existence to pretend otherwise, it was not that unusual for Balthier to find himself completely at a loss to explain what was going on. He'd given up trying to make sense of the vagaries of fate and destiny and sheer dumb luck when he turned twenty or there about. It had seemed prudent to do so, less he wanted to tempt an early death from coronary heart disease.

Still he had, perhaps naively, hoped that Fran of all people would provide some form of consistency and stability in his life. She had actually done so for him for a number of happy years; perhaps it had been unfair of him to expect her to remain constant when he knew that he himself changed with the turning tide.

Of course he had also rather expected that his own inconstancy and tendency to gyrate from one disaster to another, coupled with his complete inability to rest comfortably in his own skin, would simply drive her away from him in the end. Gods knew there were times he lay awake at night and wished he could escape the confines of his own fickle fancies, the wild notions and schemes that tormented his dreams, and made it impossible for him to be simply satisfied with his lot in life.

Eventually he had parsed out that Fran must have her own rationale for putting up with him, if only a perverse sense of penance on her part. Still Balthier had honestly expected that one day he would drive her. He had not expected that she would become as unpredictable as he.

Humourlessly Balthier scoffed at his reflection, 'I should just give up trying to make sense of this life. I swear I am quite mad, or perhaps worse, the only sane man in the asylum. Either way, these constant surprises cannot be good for one's health.'

His reflection silently, but emphatically, agreed with him. Balthier shook his head. He knew he was quietly insane, but he did not see that his own instabilities excused others in his cohort to be equally deranged.

The only attraction to madness was its solitude; there was no distinction in being mad in a crowd of lunatics.

Dazedly Balthier raised the hand not holding the razor to his bottom lip and touched the slightly tender cut where Fran had been a little less than gentle in her affections. Yes, it was fair to say that Balthier was not entirely at peace with the radical change in his - _relationship_ – with Fran.

Of course Balthier had been at war with the forces of Ivalice both Ephemeral and Ethereal all his adult life……regardless, he did not appreciate being thrown into emotional uncertainty within the confines of his own business partnership!

'There is something decidedly not right about all this and I do not like it.' He told his reflection firmly. His reflection kept his own counsel but listened attentively. Really, the only confidante a man could rely on was the ghost in one's shaving mirror.

Peering sceptically at his naked upper body in the mirror, Balthier frowned thoughtfully. He was, it would be fair to say, in something of a state. He looked like a man who had just bare knuckle fought a pack of furious Bangaa armed with cudgels and broken neck bottles. Having actually experienced such an unpleasant incidence he could say with some certainty that he felt far worse. That in itself was telling.

Putting down the razor he had not even wet yet, he trailed his fingers over his torso, twisting in the mirror so he could look at his back. Ah yes, he could ever make out the bluish black fresh bruises forming the perfect imprint of Fran's fingers across his ribs. Well, at least it hadn't hurt at the time, though in all honesty these sorts of things never did.

It was the morning after that proved the real undoing.

Balthier lapped at his swollen bottom lip meditatively. He could taste blood and realised he'd re-opened the cut. A tiny, self-satisfied and contrary smile flicked over the edges of his abused mouth. Ruthy at her most ferocious could not hold a candle to Fran in her fervour, but then, Balthier considered dryly, Ruthy had needed to use knives and such like to leave such an – impression – upon his flesh. Fran just used her nails.

Balthier shivered and licked his lips once more, closing his eyes on the memory. Gods above and below, Fran certainly knew how to use those nails of hers to full affect. He ached all over; he did not think there was a square inch of flesh on his body that remained unmarked.

He was not at sure how he felt about this.

Well no, that was a lie. He knew how he _felt_. Goodness gracious the memory alone was going to give him shivers for days, he could just tell. The fact that he was going to be bruised and tender for just as long did not truly bother him either; he had long known his predilections in the bedroom ran to matters a little more _diverse _than most women were willing or able to indulge for him (he blamed Ruthy and a repressed Gentry upbringing for this) but that did not mean a night of mind blowing pleasure was enough to distract him when it came the cold light of day.

Something was wrong; either with Fran or himself or the both of them. He knew, he could feel it, and he had every intention of getting to the bottom of this whole confused mess and putting the matter to rights. Hence the reason he had locked himself in the bathroom and was talking to his own reflection. He needed the seclusion to think all this through.

His mirror double looked at him askance. That was the one negative point in regards heart to heart discussions with one's own reflection: his audience knew when he lied.

'Fine, alright. I am afraid to face Fran. Do not tell me you would not be the same in my place.' He snapped at his other self. His reflection had the grace to concede the point with a delicate wince.

Last night had been wonderful but he was still merely mortal; he feared another morning like last night might well kill him and while he could think of worse ways to go, such a death lacked any real gravitas or dignity.

'One day somebody will be able to explain to me how it is I manage to get myself into these interminably complicated situations.' He told his reflection who nodded solemnly in response.

Careful not to aggravate the scratches and bite marks dotting his back, chest, arms, and everywhere else on his body, he shaved himself with languid nonchalance. He found the exercise cathartic. The methodical process of applying the foam to his face, drawing the razor over the contours of his cheeks and jaw (being mindful not to ruin the line of his sideburns), and then washing off the razor before repeating the process once more, helped soothe his nerves.

He had his suspicions regards what might be going on, certainly. In fact they were considerably more than suspicion alone. What he was uncertain of was how to proceed in regards those suspicions. He was worried; the last thing in all Ivalice he would ever want to do was hurt Fran. She was everything to him and the thought of an existence without her by his side caused his chest to seize with pain and his stomach to knot with fear.

Still, things were not right.

'I can't let it rest until I know for sure. If this development is natural so be it, if not I owe it to Fran to put things to rights.' He met his reflections eyes. Ffamran looked back at him levelly.

Ffamran was generally in favour of facing cold facts head on and then taking the necessary action, whether that be treason or patricide or some other extremity of conviction that Balthier would rather sidestep.

It was the bane of duality; sometimes he wished he could function with just the one mind.

Balthier would never deny that he loved Fran; to deny that would be to deny himself. No, more than that, it would be like a flower turning from the sun and trying to grow under the ground. The notion was ridiculous and perverse. Still it was the fact that he loved her that made him question this dramatic shift in the nature of their partnership. He did not trust it because it simply did not seem in keeping with Fran's character.

Of course it might also be suggested that Balthier had never been the most trusting of sorts. In fact he was the sort of fellow that did not believe that water was wet and fire was hot without first testing it himself. (Once again he blamed his upbringing and lineage for this – he might as well, after all).

It was that old cliché, why look a gift Chocobo in the mouth? The answer was simple; you looked because no one ever gave away anything they valued. Therefore never except a gift from anyone unless you knew the hidden price beforehand.

'I suppose I can't put it off any longer.'

He looked mournfully at his reflection who gave him a carefully stoical look in return (though Balthier suspected his other self was secretly gloating that he was not the one who had to leave this room and face the music). Balthier scowled then shook his head savagely.

'Bah – I'm beggars mad as a bloody Giza Hare.' he hissed vehemently through his teeth as he stormed out of his bathroom and dressed swiftly, ignoring the various sore points all over his body.

When he finally decided to grace Ivalice with his presence and resume the mantle of leading man once more he entered the Strahl's cockpit to find it crowded with people, none of whom he had the inclination to engage with today.

Of course it was a rare day indeed that his inclinations matched the necessities of his situation.

For a moment he stood just inside the main cabin of the Strahl and tried to put his finger on the profound sense of……well, _wrongness _that assaulted him like a dose of vertigo. He could feel it in his veins; something was very wrong but he could not ascribe to what. Everything looked normal but under the surface Balthier could almost taste something malign and distorted. It felt like a fever delusion or a waking dream; all-encompassing and enveloping but still not quite real.

'Balthier….!' Penelo leapt up from the co-pilot's chair where she had been taking the navigator spot as Fran piloted. In doing so she effective sabotaged his line of thought. Anna, sitting in one of the passenger seats, looked up at him wide eyed and eager, quill pen poised over a fresh page. He frowned narrowly at the paper in her lap for a moment and then fixed a forestalling scowl upon Penelo.

'Yes, I know. Vaan needs rescuing.' He shook his head and sighed, ticking off the various pressing issues vying for his attention and knowing that any hope of parsing out the more subtle wrongness of the morn was even now slipping through his fingers.

It was like trying to fight thin air; the malignancy was all around him, he was breathing it in, but he could not grab a-hold of it or shake himself loose.

'Eraldo needs to be taken down a peg. Larsa needs his peace accord, Landis needs her ornament back, and I need a nice respite in some secluded and preferably well appointed sanatorium.' He rattled off cheerfully, 'All things in their time, Penelo.' Balthier patted her absently on the shoulder as he passed, still frowning.

'But….what? Balthier I don't understand; what's a sanatorium?'

Penelo trailed him as Fran rose smoothly from the pilot's seat and resumed her usual place in the co-pilot's chair. Balthier observed her narrowly, but she did not seem to be exhibiting any behaviours either unusual or rabidly amorous. Carefully settling into his chair Balthier seized control of the Strahl and sent a quiet thanks to any wandering benevolent deity for small mercies.

For just a moment as he looked over the familiar controls of the Strahl an alarm pinged in the back of his skull. A warning: something was wrong. However he was interrupted before he could pierce the veil and see the truth he knew was there.

Anna poked her head over the top of the back of one of the vacated passenger seats.

'Ommanan Keve sanatorium in northern Archadia is rather good, Ffamran. Father placed me there for a small stay of treatment after you kidnapped me and forced me to participate in a violent insurrection and gaol break.'

She smiled sweetly. Balthier gave her back pound for pound the false sweetness of her smile as he looked over his shoulder at her.

'Thank you Anna dear, I'll bear that in mind.' He simpered, teeth bared.

He did not have time for old guilt and the passive aggressive revenge of a former sweetheart right now, whether deserved or not.

'However right this moment I think a sojourn in Dalmasca might be in order, hmm?'

'Dalmasca? But Vaan is in Bhujerba….?' Penelo piped up. She rested her chin on the top of Fran's chair, so that her face was framed by Fran's ears. Balthier decided to ignore the oddity of that and focus on the immediate concerns.

He could not shake the certainty that something was very wrong. He felt like a player who had walked onto the wrong stage. The sensation raised the hackles on the back of his neck, yet he did not have the time to focus all his attention on the problem; life kept interfering.

'Yes, but Vaan is a citizen of Dalmasca, a citizen whose monarch owes him quite a debt of gratitude. I think our Queen would be interested to hear that one of her subjects is being held under duress by one of her dear uncle's subjects, don't you?'

'Oh.' Penelo said and although Balthier could not see it, as he was focused on adjusting their course through the blue sky, he could well imagine that her face was a picture of fierce concentration as she tried to work out what he had planned. Vaan, in contrast, would have either understood instantly through some strange alchemy of luck, or otherwise remained cheerfully oblivious and made no attempt to rationalise.

Honestly Balthier was not sure which irritating young former street urchin he would rather have in his company right now. No, in fact, that was another lie. The answer was rudimentary. He wanted the both of them bloody well gone.

'Are you really so bold that you would involve the sovereign of Dalmasca in your own private pirate squabbles, Ffamran?' Anna asked, pen scratching away in the background. Balthier smiled blindingly over his shoulder at her once more.

'Anna, dearest, the real question is whether the Lady Ashe is bold or foolhardy enough to refuse me. I bloody well saved her kingdom from a falling sky fortress – without receiving anything in the way of payment, I might add.' He pointed out as an afterthought. His mood darkened. 'Plus, Vaan is her responsibility; let the queen rescue the brat.'

'Balthier!' Penelo's admonishment screeched in his ears. Anna's pen moved furiously and Fran, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, glanced at him with detached curiosity.

'You are in rare mood this day, Balthier.'

Now it could be argued, fairly decisively, that Balthier was a man with an even temperament. That was not to say his nature was particularly sweet or his mood that amiable. However, he was not one to show violent swings in mood or be particularly demonstrative in his emotional responses in times of stress. In fact his complete lack of emotional response in times of dire circumstance was one of his most noticeable attributes. Despite this fact every man has his breaking point, and Balthier had just reached his. He whipped his head around to stare at Fran.

'And you are one to speak!' he snapped.

Silence descended on the cabin as the three other occupants of the Strahl gaped at Balthier (well, the two humes gaped, Fran, who would never gape, did however blink at him in deep surprise). For his part Balthier paid them no heed; something else had captured his attention – his momentary anger clearing the fog that had filled his mind. He stared at the controls of the Strahl as if he had never seen them before.

'Balthier – are you well?' Fran's hand reached out to tentatively touch his arm and Balthier jerked from the touch, his eyes rooted to the control console of the Strahl.

'Balthier?'

Penelo's tentative inquiry was ignored just as Fran had been rebuffed. Balthier continued to stare at the control console of the Strahl. Very slowly he released the control levers.

'Balthier!'

Any further exclamations were cut off abruptly as the three women realised that, despite the fact that Balthier was not actively flying the Strahl, the ship did not fall from the sky. All eyes turned to Balthier who was staring at the control levers, which continued to shift and move as if guided by unseen hands, with a peculiar expression upon his face.

'Fran……..'

'Yes Balthier?' she asked him carefully. She too had now noticed that there was something very wrong with the Strahl.

'Fran,' Balthier repeated voice breathy and unnaturally calm, like the lull before the storm or the shocked stillness on the verge of hysteria.

'Yes Balthier?' Fran repeated placing a hand on his arm that was both supportive and restraining.

'Fran, why is it that the Strahl appears to be flying on her own stead when the power gauges indicate that the glossair engines are disengaged and auxiliary power has been severed?'

'I do not know Balthier.' Fran answered, ever so carefully.

'Indeed?' Balthier smiled faintly. He nodded once and then rose from his chair, vaguely amused smirk stretched across his lips like a scar.

'Excuse me ladies, I shall just be a moment.' He said politely, eyes fixed dead ahead.

As soon as he was out of the cabin he started to run. He hit the engine room at a full out sprint and did not even notice that Fran, Penelo, and Anna were following close on his heels. Heedless of an audience Balthier yanked open the main casing of the primary glossair engine hatch.

What he found chilled his blood to the marrow of his being and lit a fuse of ice fire in his soul.

Inside the very heart of the Strahl instead of a complex and to Balthier's eyes, beautiful, mesh of wires, cables, and components there was an equally familiar but far less revered statuette nestled into the hatch. The Strahl's engine, her mechanised heart, was missing.

'Gods above and below no.' Balthier whispered, unable to do more than stare, 'Not this, not _my_ Strahl.' His beloved Strahl had been violated and maligned.

As the blood pounded a staccato war beat in his ears it was fair to say that murder was too mild a term for what percolated in his thoughts. He had robbed and stolen, lied, cheated and abased himself to lay incontrovertible claim to his Strahl. More than an airship, more than a home or a means of transportation, the Strahl was his justification and his prize. She was the one constant, the one truly precious relic of Archadia, of his past, that he had retained throughout.

Words could not describe what he felt at the sight of this violation. What he experienced in that moment, seeing the Phoenix, like a canker, in the heart of his beloved airship was something more profound than mere fury.

Wars had been started with less passion and less hate.

Balthier swore vociferously. Wrenching himself away from the horror of his Strahl's predicament he looked up as if he could glare through the steel roof of the engine room to the open sky beyond. He addressed his furiously calm, icy words thusly.

'Give me back my ship, you hideous, meddlesome lump of bloody pointless metal or I promise you I will melt you down to slag and sell you to a junk merchant!'

Snarling with unrestrained fury he reached to tear the statue of the Landis Phoenix from the heart of the Strahl; he'd destroy the Phoenix and damn the consequences before he would allow her manipulations to continue. Of course the Phoenix had other ideas.

In a flash of light and the scream of an eagle both the Phoenix and Balthier vanished from the Strahl's engine room; suddenly bereft of a power source to keep her aloft the Strahl immediately started to fall from the sky.

There was absolutely nothing that Fran, Penelo, or Anna could do to stop it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen: 707o.v. Royal Palace Dalmasca**

_A/N: Hello all, yes I am breaking with my own formula and doing two 'present day' chapters in a row. It's my story and my rules, I can break them if I want, right? Not a lot happens in this chapter, but consider it a lull before a storm…..trust me, all hell is about to break loose!_

_Now if you would all put your hands together and welcome Her Majesty Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca to our stage…….._

* * *

His lungs filled with water and his cheek collided with the smooth turquoise tile of the bottom of the pool. The instinct to push off the bottom and surge upwards towards the surface thankfully did not require any higher thought processes. This was something of a relief to Balthier as his higher thought processes were having trouble catching up with his rapidly changing circumstances.

His head burst up through the surface of the pool and, blinded by the water streaming down into his eyes, he reached blindly for the lip of the pool edge to haul himself up.

'Halt intruder!'

Balthier's vision cleared and he found himself staring up into the sharp points of a number of halbard.s. Beyond the poles of the spears he could see the cautious faces of a number of familiarly dressed military types. Hmm, pointy sticks held in inexpert hands, irritating accents, indecorous amounts of bare flesh on show…..what did that remind him of?....ah, of course, Dalmasca!

Wasn't that convenient? Had he not just been speaking of a need to visit with the Queen? Balthier scowled darkly at the thought and the ever stretched boundaries of credulity that meant he should just so happen to be magickally deposited right in the midst of the royal Rabanastran palace.

'Intruder state your name and purpose or suffer the consequences!'

'Oh please,' Balthier scoffed as one of the halbard points quivered closer to his right shoulder as he prepared to drag himself out of the large swimming pool he appeared to have landed in. 'Make yourselves useful, would you, and pull me up?'

Not waiting for one of the slack-jawed Dalmascan's to respond Balthier grabbed hold of one of the poles of the halbard's just above the point and used the weapon, and the weight of the vacuous fool holding it at the other end, to drag himself out of the water. Almost immediately he was closed in by a thicket of sharp pointy objects.

'Enough – cease and desist - that is an order!'

Another voice rang out just before one of the Dalmascan Order of Knights decided to poke him a little harder with the spear. A quiver of movement went through the knot of soldiers as Balthier sat up on his knees and tried to sweep his sopping wet hair out of his face. He had just managed to swipe another deluge of water from his eyes when her Majesty the Lady Ashe appeared before him, elbowing her way through her own guards.

He looked up at her, she looked down on him. Her foot started tapping and her expression could best be described as regally un-amused. Balthier's lips quirked; her Majesty Ashelia appeared to be dressed in her bathing robes. All in all the prospects of the day appeared to be improving.

'Hello Majesty, you're looking particularly fetching today.' He greeted her jovially, ignoring the razor points of spears against his throat and the fact that he was soaking wet and not at all sure how he had ended up in her palace, with his usual aplomb.

For just a moment Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca's expression looked like thunder and he wondered if she might very well impale him herself. Then her small, pouty mouth quivered at the edges and her storm grey eyes lit with a hidden amusement. Still she maintained an icy demeanour in her manner of address.

'Good day to you, Balthier. I trust there is a good reason you have trespassed into my personal bathing chamber?'

Balthier felt his smirk tickling his lips and his eyes twinkled. He was fairly confident her Majesty was not planning to murder him for his impudence just this moment.

'Indeed, Highness, as do I.' he told her earnestly and raised his dripping sleeves for her inspection, 'I would hate to have ruined a perfectly serviceable shirt for no good reason.'

Ashe cocked her head to the side and surveyed him with an impassive regal eye. The ice and fire twinkle in her gaze sparked once more. She rubbed her finger across the centre of her lips.

'Are you in trouble Balthier?'

'Highness, really,' He rebuked her cheerfully, batting indifferently at the wavering barrier of spears to give himself room. 'What sort of a man do you take me for?'

Ashe snorted indelicately and then reached down to grab hold of him by a fistful of heavy, sodden leather vest.

'You do not really wish me to answer that,' she told him dryly. 'Now get up, pirate, and we shall see about finding you some change of apparel.'

She glanced at her attentive but slightly uncertain guards with something like contempt. 'You may leave now. I have the situation under control.'

'But your Majesty…?'

Ashe glared at the unfortunate fellow and Balthier felt the vaguest hint of sympathy for the man; he well remembered what it was to be under the bane of one of her ladyship's deathly glares. Balthier got to his feet and looked down at his dripping self with weary disdain. His trousers were ruined; the shrinkage would be horrendous.

'Go!' Ashe snapped at the dithering guards. The men almost tripped over their halbards in their haste to obey their irritable monarch. Balthier watched them with detached amusement. When he turned back Ashe was watching him with equal amusement.

'Well, pirate?' She demanded arms crossed over her chest. Balthier sighed in sodden fashion and then turned to walk back to the edge of the pool. He glanced over his shoulder at her majesty.

'Do not take this the wrong way, majesty, but in a country where water is a rare and precious commodity is it equitable that you should have a 'bath' the size of a small airship landing strip?'

Ashe narrowed her eyes, 'The pool is fed by a natural spring under the palace and has stood for centuries.' She told him sharply, 'In any regard I am Queen here and you are nothing more than a trespassing wanted felon. I would keep your observations to yourself, if I were you.'

Balthier chuckled, 'Now Highness, is that any way to treat an old friend and comrade? If I had feelings I dare say I would be hurt.' he pressed a hand to his heavy, water logged vest over his heart.

Ashe sighed, 'Do not push me, pirate. Hanging is still on the statute books in Dalmasca.' She stepped up beside him and looked pointedly from him to the pool, 'Are you going to explain to me how you ended up materialising in thin air five feet above my pool just moments ago?'

Balthier sighed a little sharply as he reached behind himself to attack to clasps and ties at the back of his vest. The damnable thing was impossibly heavy when wet and so tight that he was finding it a trifle hard to breathe. He managed to release the clasps at the bottom sides of the vest but the lacings were proving difficult being wet and unwieldy. Ashe watched him struggle for a handful of moments and then stepped closer.

'One wonders, pirate, why you persist in wearing such awkward attire. Stay still and I will help you.' There was a somewhat pointed pause before she added in meaningful tone, 'I still remember how this garment fastens.'

Balthier, wisely, chose to say nothing at all to address the subtext and instead stayed still while Ashe deftly released the last of the clasps. Breathing a sigh of relief Balthier shrugged out of the restricting weight of the vest.

'My gratitude to you Majesty,' he demurred for he was a man who observed manners, especially when the woman beside him could kill him in a hundred different ways before he could blink.

Ashe looked at him oddly and then shook her head. 'I would say you are welcome, Balthier, but I try not to fall into the trap of falsehoods.'

Slanting her an ironic smile Balthier turned his gaze to the depths of the bathing pool. He frowned. The water, softly lapping at the edge of the pool, was crystal clear and he could easily see the turquoise tiled floor at the bottom. His frown grew pensive.

'Hmm, I don't suppose you happened to notice if a particularly ugly carven statuette materialised alongside me a few moments ago?'

He cast his eyes over the surrounding environment, checking to see if the Landis Phoenix had landed in the terracotta urns of any of the potted palms or into the piles of velvet cushions artfully scattered around the rather opulent room.

'Statuette?'

Ashe followed him as he made a circuit of the room, poking behind gold silken draperies and pulling apart the curtains of palm fronds in a vain hope that the Phoenix was somewhere hereabouts.

'Balthier!'

The queen caught his arm and pulled him around to face her, 'Dalmasca has long since outlawed the use of torture upon captives, but I am prepared to repeal that ruling if you do not explain to me what is going on this very instant.'

Balthier stopped and considered this 'request' for information. He was not overly troubled by the threat of torture; he'd been tortured before and the novelty had long worn off. Instead he considered the relative merits of full disclosure versus the prospect of trying to get out of the queen's presence swiftly by virtue of half-truths and evasions.

He sighed. There was no contest really; he had not spent ten months of his life in the queen's party not to learn just how relentlessly persistent she could be, especially when it came to getting what she wanted. He smiled thinly and disingenuously.

'Of course Highness; I would be happy to explain whatever you wish to know, but perhaps we could retire to some other location…..and if I could trouble you for a towel?'

He dropped into a flourishing bow, but kept his head up and gaze rooted to her. He smiled wolfishly and winked at her. Ashe shook her head and turned away to lead him out of the room, but not fast enough that Balthier did not catch the smile on her lips.

Some forty minutes later Balthier was seated across from her Highness Dalmasca in her private bed chambers, comfortably ensconced in a chair with his back to the late Dalmascan sun slanting in through the open balcony windows and a large towel wrapped about his upper body (having flatly refused any of the offers of Dalmascan clothing; he would sooner be wet and risk permanent damage from leather shrinkage than be seen in Dalmascan attire).

He sipped at the honey tea Ashe poured from the very nice tea set that had been a coronation gift from her uncle and waited for her to process all that he had just told her of his recent exploits.

Ashe sat across from him, feet tucked up under her and she perched on the edge of her four-poster bed. Her own tea was untouched in her hands as she stared at him.

'Good gods, pirate, how is it that you manage to get into these situations? Do you even know why Rikken has set you up as a stalking horse for the pirate succession?'

Balthier settled back in the chair, 'No.' he admitted shortly.

Ashe rubbed her finger over her lip thoughtfully, 'Do you suppose he imagines you could win the contest for pirate king?'

'Highness, please, there is no contest.' He scoffed lazily basking in the sun and the respite from assassination attempts, strange mystical and meddlesome inanimate objects and criminal intrigues. He flapped a hand with airy confidence.

'The rest of the riff-raff of pirate kind have no hope against me. What worries me is what happens after.'

He finished his tea and replaced the tea cup on the low table before tugging the towel more securely over his shoulders.

'I have no monarchical desires whatsoever; if it is a choice of death or the dubious title of pirate king I'll take the latter but it is not a title I have ever coveted.' He shook his head irritably, 'Frankly the title has always seemed much too much work and danger for very little tangible gain.'

'Indeed.' Ashe retorted dryly, 'And I dare say Rikken is well aware of your chronic inability to commit to anything above and beyond your own self-interest.'

Balthier arched one eyebrow at the rebuke but had no chance at a rebuttal before Ashe continued in musing tones.

'Perhaps that is the point? Rikken will use you to clear passage to this pirate 'throne' knowing full well and good that you will not claim it yourself.'

Balthier considered this, 'I would not have thought him ambitious enough for that, but,' he shrugged carelessly, 'if that is so then he is welcome to the 'throne'. I do not want it and at least Rikken is a man I can tolerate to a certain extent.' He paused, 'Though I am less enamoured of him now then I was before he set all pirate kind out for my blood.'

Ashe shook her head, her expression abstracted. When she looked back at him she seemed angry, or perhaps disappointed. 'Balthier….?'

'Hmm?' He quirked a curious eyebrow.

Ashe pursed her lips, 'No, it does not matter. I know my answer anyway. I have known ever since you waited an entire year to send word that you had survived the Bahamut and did not even see fit to come and tell me in person.' She shook her head angrily, 'I will not embarrass either of us by speaking of such things; you have made your feelings clear.'

Balthier opened his mouth and then closed it sharply. He was not at all sure he knew quite what this line of conversation was about but he was quite certain he did not want to investigate further. Still he felt obscurely guilty in a vague and befuddled manner. Surely she could not be referring to that dalliance they shared in Balfonheim after his father's death……

……bloody hell, he thought savagely, he should simply take a vow of celibacy and be done with the whole of the female sex (of any species). He rather thought his life would be considerably less complicated and a damn sight safer if he did. Dull though, quite considerably more dull as well. Ah, well, it could not be helped. All great men had their vices after all.

'Hmm, yes, well.'

He began cautiously trying to steer clear of uncomfortable subject matters while watching Ashe somewhat carefully for any chance that she might take a swing at him. One could never tell with her ladyship and he did not fancy his chances if Ashe decided to play the part of a woman scorned. He licked his lips and continued more confidently.

'The most immediate and perhaps most easily remedied problem is Vaan's predicament.'

'Yes, Vaan,' Ashe said seeming just as willing to avoid discussion of the vagaries of their association as he himself. Balthier kept his sigh of relief inaudible through sheer force of will. He had enough trouble with Fran without Ashe weighing in as well. Women; they were the bane of a man's existence.

'I assume you have a plan to retrieve him? It is your fault that Vaan is in this 'predicament' to begin with.' Ashe gave him a coldly pointed look.

'My fault? I hardly think so. If you would blame anyone, blame Rikken for placing the bounty, or Vaan himself for being so incautious as to be captured. I had thought he might have learned something of use in the months he trailed at my boot heels like a stray hound.' Balthier retorted sharply.

He shook his head irritably and continued in the same vein, 'In fact, you too Highness, bear some of the blame for not curtailing the foolishness of your own subjects. At the very least you could have locked Vaan up somewhere until he was too enfeebled to cause trouble for the rest of us.'

Ashe stared at him in open disbelief for a moment. Then she snapped her jaws closed and glowered at him, 'One wonders that you have any adherents at all. I do not believe I have ever met a man more self-centred and arrogant than you!'

Balthier favoured her with a lazy and insouciant smirk, 'Leading man, Highness, leading man. It is all part of my rare and unique charm.'

'I believe the 'charm' is wearing thin.' Ashe snapped, 'You had best tell me your plan before I decide to offer you as a sacrifice to free Vaan.'

Balthier maintained his smirk as he crossed one damp leather clad leg over the other and lounged comfortably in his chair. 'It is funny you should mention such an action, Highness. However I will save you the expense of doing so and go to Eraldo myself.'

Ashe watched him, 'What do you intend to do, Balthier? Bear in mind that Vaan is a citizen of Dalmasca and therefore mine to protect.'

'Of course, majesty.' he inclined his head, 'I have no intention of risking the annoying little urchin's life.'

He sighed sitting forward. 'I have a plan that, with your co-operation, will allow me to extricate Vaan from this mess without the unpleasantness of death and bloodshed altogether.'

Ashe hesitated a moment and then sighed, placed her tea cup on the bedside table and leaned forward so she could hear what the pirate had to say. Succinctly Balthier told her his plan.

'That is your plan?' Ashe asked once he was finished.

'Yes.'

'You are quite mad, pirate.'

Balthier frowned sulkily. 'Please Highness, there is no need to be rude. In fact so long as everyone plays their respective parts correctly I see no reason why this plan should be anything other than a complete success.'

'Real life is not a game, Balthier, or some elaborate play that you can choreograph to suit your whims.'

Balthier smiled carelessly back at her, mind already considering putting theory into practice and what he would do about the more pressing worry of the missing Phoenix.

After all he could not follow through on his threat to melt the bloody thing into a puddle of molten metal if he did not have it to hand, could he now?

'Ah, Majesty, life is nothing but a game. To view it as anything other than a series of feints and parries, gambits and chance, is to grow old before one's time. Once one knows the script one can play life at its own game.'

Ashe reached across the small divide between her bed and the chair he lounged in, she placed a hand upon his bare wrist as it clutched the towel closed over his shoulders.

'Have a care, pirate, you sound like Dr Cid, when you speak so.'

For a moment the barb struck home, but only for a moment. His father had been dead, or one with the ether depending on one's viewpoint on the matter, for something approaching two years now. It had been a number of months since Balthier had dreamed of his father's smile as he faded from existence only to waken drenched in grief and cold sweats.

Now though he considered what Ashe said objectively, because strangely he trusted Ashe to know what his father's false madness had cost him; perhaps more so even than Fran. In fact there was no one else he would tolerate such a warning from, but then, Ashe knew what cost the nethicite extracted from one's soul. She had been close to falling to its power herself. Perhaps in the oddest of ways she had understood what had driven Cid in a manner that even Balthier could not. He would not soon forget either that it was _she_ who had offered him some comfort after his father's demise. Still Balthier shook his head and gently detached his wrist from her hand.

'Frankly Highness that is the least of my concerns at present,' he told her honestly.

Mad he might be but he had neither the time nor inclination to address the issue as yet. His current troubles would not cease simply because his mental faculties were in question. Quietly he rose from the chair, towel still clasped about him like a clock. He stepped out onto Ashe's balcony and reached for his white shirt where it hung over the balcony rail drying in the still baking heat of the Dalmascan afternoon.

'I have taken quite enough of your time, majesty. I apologise for keeping you from your affairs of state.'

He stated with brisk cheer as he pulled on his shirt, modestly keeping the towel over his shoulders until the still slightly damp cotton had covered him once more.

Ashe watched with open amusement; for such a vain man he was terribly…boyish…..in his shyness regarding showing bare flesh. It was rather an endearing trait in an otherwise almost insufferably arrogant and aggravating man. The Queen of Dalmasca berated herself for such thoughts almost as soon as she had them however (she knew they led only to trouble after all) and rose from her bed as Balthier finished trying to mould his hair into some form of order and extended a hand towards her.

'Do we have a deal, Highness? Will you do what I have requested to rescue poor, dear, half-witted Vaan?'

Ashe sighed, 'This will bear ill in the end but yes, you have a deal. I will speak with my uncle and ensure you have what you need to rescue Vaan.'

She clasped his hand and was not overly surprised when he lifted the hand to his lips and placed a chaste kiss to the back of it. His next words however did surprise her.

'Thank you Ashe.'

Without another word or even waiting for the queen to recover from her surprise Balthier strolled out of her chamber but hesitated in the threshold of her doorway.

'No need to show me out, I remember the way.' He winked over his shoulder and was gone.

Ashe plonked herself down heavily on the edge of her bed and rubbed at her lips in irritable fashion.

'Damn pirate.' She muttered before getting up to summon her notary so that she might contact her uncle post haste.

Although almost certainly quite mad Ashe knew that Balthier was a man well accustomed to getting his own way. Gods damn him; Balthier even had she, the Dynast Queen, rushing to his beck and call.

It was, she reasoned sourly, just as well the man was far too fickle and flighty to turn his hand to dictatorship; for she would truly fear for the peace of Ivalice should Balthier gain himself a throne.

* * *

_A/N: all subtle hints and insinuations between Ashe and Balthier relate to a scene in one of my other stories 'Sky Pirate Odyssey' chpt 33. You don't have to bother with that story, however, as it is only a little in-referencing to amuse myself. ;) P.S: yes I am being deliberately mean by not revealing the fate of Fran et al. I don't know why, perhaps it's a newly uncovered vein of sadism? _


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Firstly to anyone still out there and interested in this story; I offer a tremendous and unreserved apology for how long it has taken me to update. A number of factors came together to make this happen. One being the loss of the plot draft for this entire story from my faulty memory stick (arrggh!) the other was that my brain was eaten by another story in a different genre and the second was a very nasty dose of writers block in this story that I'm beginning to fight my way through now._

_Second as of this chapter I'm changing my format. Instead of a chapter in the past and a chapter in the present I'm going to cross over, back and forth, within chapters. I'm hoping this will push the story on faster and stop me from getting mired in the dull-drums of writers block again. _

_Spikey44 _

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: 702o.v. Chantilier's Rest**

'Balthier?'

_Aeneas trailed after his friend through the briny smelling, sunshine wreathed winding streets of Cahahouli Bay. He was decidedly anxious. Whereas there was rarely a dull moment around Balthier it was also true that his friend's unique perspective on life and personal safety could on occasion be hazardous to one's health. Still whatever was going to happen Aeneas would sooner bite off his own hand than miss it._

'Balthier, mate, would you just slow down a minute….'

'Be quiet Aeneas; can you not see I am ignoring you?'

_Pausing at a crossroads in the street, Balthier looked one way and then the other. He squinted down the sloping roadway at each higgledy-piggledy white washed, flat roofed building with its colourful awnings and brightly painted wooden window shutters. _

'Hmm, now this would be simpler if I could read the bloody signs above the doors,' _Balthier muttered to himself._

_It was a source of some embarrassment to him that despite genuine effort to learn the basics of foreign dialects he had so far proved woefully inept. He tapped his foot and thought about asking Aeneas, but then remembered that he was not speaking with his friend and so refrained._

'Well, when in doubt, guess.' _He arbitrarily chose to go down hill instead of up and headed off in that direction; why go to extra effort when one didn't have too after all? He examined each shop and eatery curiously as he passed them, Aeneas worried mutterings at his back no more noticeable than the gulls squawking over head._

'Now if I was a mistress of my own gang of mercenary killers and mark hunters, where would I set up shop, hmm?' _Balthier mused aloud as he came to the bottom of the hill where the street dropped away into a walled off cliff face. He pivoted slowly in a circle as he eyed the buildings._

'Would I choose the delightfully dilapidated and unwelcoming tavern over there?' _Balthier regarded the drab and cracked façade of the building. The litter of broken bottle glass by the rough wood door and the un-shuttered windows with their patina of filth. The whole demeanour of the building gave off a certain aura that was hard to ignore; inviting it was not. _

_Balthier marked the possibility and the cliché and then turned to consider other alternatives. _

'Or perhaps the quaint and wonderfully misleading cantina at the edge of the cliff face would be more likely?'

_The cantina in question was a brightly painted and well maintained little eatery with chairs and tables, which were laid out on the street for diners to view the water far below and enjoy the sunshine and potted flowers. An atmosphere of cheerful welcome seemed to exude from the premises. Balthier considered his options musingly. He came to his decision swiftly. There was no contest really. _

'Yes that would be my choice too.'

_Balthier turned to Aeneas, who was still blithering on to himself about some such nonsense. _'Here hold onto this for me – and the gods sake, whatever you do, stay out here! If you get me killed I shall be decidedly unimpressed.' _Shoving the Phoenix statuette into his friend's hands he turned on his heels and strode across the street to the door of the cantina. _

_Ms. Mary-Belle may well be a maven chief of a nest of killers and cutthroats but that did not mean she enjoyed living in squalor anymore than any self-respecting Hume would; in fact no one would deliberately chose to live in a sink-hole dump like that tavern if they had a choice. _

_The bell over the door to the cantina jangled as Balthier shoved the door open and blithely stepped through into the surprisingly smoky interior of the café. He blinked and tried to focus on the hazy silhouettes of a large number of surprising huge men of various races who turned to face the door with matching expressions of menace aforethought on their very different countenances._

'Greets and salutations to you all,' _Balthier smiled brightly as a thicket of sharp pointy objects and gun muzzles were shoved into his face. _'Perhaps you gentlemen can help me?' _He continued ignoring said sharp, pointy things with natural aplomb._ 'I am looking for a lady of the name Mary-Belle?'

_A general stirring in the darkest corner of the smoke hazy café alerted him to the yellow eyed presence of a dark skinned woman in a luridly colourful low-cut dress sitting smoking a pipe carved from ivory. _

'An' what business do you 'ave wit' dis Mary-Belle, eh?'

_Balthier smiled; he had not thought it would be quite so easy. _'I would very much like to make the gracious lady an obscene amount of Gil.' _He brushed his hands down in his linen sleeves, _'Do you, perchance, happen to know madam, where I might find said lady?'

* * *

**707O.V. Rabanastre: Dalmasca**

Three minutes outside of the cool, breezy tranquillity of the Rabanastre Palace walls Balthier was baking in the dry, mouth caking, insect laden heat of the Muuthru Bazaar and, unsurprisingly, contemplating large scale, but refined, murder of the general populace of Rabanastre.

Gods but he hated this city.

A brown scaled Bangaa hawking his wares espied the tall, lean, and clearly well-heeled young man striding purposely through the mass of short, blonde Rabanastrans and opened his mouth to start his opening gambit. Before his throat could form the first note of sound the man's head turned on his neck and the black eyed glare of total malice expressed with regal restraint via one arched brow was enough to send the Bangaa scurrying for safety behind his stall.

Balthier curled his lip, tossed his head, making his ear-ring flash in the merciless Dalmascan sun, and continued walking, cursing the water crinkling damage upon his shirt sleeves and trousers as he strode through the bazaar.

The laconic red head leaning against one of the adobe buildings in the city, arms folded across his chest and double belts laden with Gil, grinned to himself as his watched the irritable Archadian continue to glower Rabanastran traders into submission as he made his way to the aerodrome. The watcher straightened up from the wall and fell into relaxed pursuit. He wondered what Balthier would do when he realised he was being followed - and by whom.

Balthier became aware of his tag-along somewhere between the fountain in the plaza by the south gate of the city and the Moogling Post outside of the aerodrome where he stopped to have a pleasant conversation with the attendant Moogle, Sorbet.

'Kupo, master Balthier, kupo-po, fancy seeing you here,' Sorbet fidgeted with her large, floppy brimmed sun hat as she smiled up at him.

'Good day to you Sorbet,' Balthier dropped onto his haunches so he could have an eye to eye (or close enough) conversation with the diminutive bundle of fluff. 'Had much business with the Post?'

The question was more than idle curiosity or polite conversation; Balthier was a key investor in the technology and, if it wasn't for Archadia's rampant racism and jingoism, would have, without doubt, made ridiculous amounts of Gil selling the technology to the Empire. True, he still despised said political institution, but under little lord Larsa that burning hatred had been tempered into a more benign desire to exploit and undermine the Empire in a more subtle and fiscally acquisitive manner.

Sorbet beamed at him, 'Kupo, thank you for asking Master Balthier. The Moogling Post in the central shopping district has been rendered inoperative via vandalism.' The small Moogle began in the tones of one giving a report to a military general.

Balthier quirked a brow, 'Indeed, and can one assume that said vandals have been 'dealt with' accordingly.'

Sorbet nodded earnestly, 'Oh yes, kupo; they will never vandalise another Moogling Post in all Ivalice.' There was something in the almost offensively adorable white fluffy Moogle's face and glinting obsidian eyes that made a cold tickle of disquiet run down Balthier's spine. Right at that moment there was nothing remotely 'cute' or harmless about the small creature before him.

'Well, I suppose that is good a thing.' Balthier said carefully. He rather suspected that further acts of vandalism upon Moogle technology would not be the only activity those unfortunate fools would never again engage in. Balthier actually suspected that the only activity those petty felons would now indulge at all was the act of decomposition.

Sorbet nodded once again, 'Kupo-po; yes master Balthier. We Moogles take very good care of our equipment, kupo.' Those huge liquid eyes gleamed with a darkling light.

'Quite,' Balthier turned his head fractionally to the side, 'On an unrelated note, Sorbet, does there happen to be someone, a Hume I believe, following me?'

'Oh yes kupo.' Sorbet reached up to scratch at her fluffy head under the brim of the large sun hat. 'A man, master Balthier.' Sorbet cocked her small head, 'He has the look of a pirate, by my eyes, kupo.'

'Archadian or Rozzarian?'

'Archadian, master Balthier,' Sorbet squinted, 'he has red hair.'

Balthier blinked and a cold trickle ticked under his scalp, 'Young or old?'

'No older than you yourself, master Balthier, but I'll be a Bangaa's aunty if he is a day your junior kupo.'

Balthier drummed his fingers on the hot stone paving outside the aerodrome, 'Red haired, young, and distinctively Archadian?' he summarised the description. 'Tsk, the Gods are playing tricks again.' He cursed softly. 'He's _supposed_ to be dead.'

Balthier flicked one of his belt pouches open and pulled out a fistful of coins which he handed off to Sorbet. 'I understand that you are assisting Nono in his publicity campaign for the fraternity?'

Sorbet nodded virtuously, 'To spread the word of Kupo to the masses of Ivalice is my mission.'

'Good, good.' Balthier resisted turning his head to look behind him even though his neck was prickling with nerves, 'That's marvellous; please consider these coins as a small donation to the cause and pass on my regards to your dear sister Minty.' He rose to his feet, brushing off his water wrinkled trousers.

'Kupo-po! I will master Balthier; I will.' The Gil coins vanished instantly, secreted away by the fiscally prudent Moogle in astonishing haste.

'Kupo would you like me to deal with the Hume, master Balthier. It would be my pleasure to teach him the error of his ways, kupo.'

Balthier paused and considered this for a moment but then shook his head, somewhat regretfully.

'A gracious offer, my dear Sorbet, but one I must decline. A man of my age should resolve his own disputes, after all.' he offered a formal Archadian bow to the Moogle who returned the gesture with the traditional Moogle wing wiggle.

'Goodbye master Balthier.' Sorbet waved at him as he walked into the aerodrome. Straightening his back and holding his head high Balthier did not need Sorbet's eyes to tell him that his pursuer was hard on his heels.

He walked confidently through the throng of people milling around waiting for commercial airships and headed towards the private docking bays, even though he knew that the Strahl would not be waiting for him. In fact he had no idea where the Strahl was.

In actual fact, he had no idea if the Strahl and her passengers were still extant. He shook his head angrily; that sort of thinking did a man no good at all. He strode onwards; he would just have to put his faith once more in Fran's extraordinary ingenuity. It was not as if she had never had to clean up after one of his messes before, after all.

Fran would be fine, everything would be absolutely fine. Yes quite; there was absolutely nothing to worry about except for the fact that he had incurred the obsession of a sentient all-powerful mantle ornament, every assassin from here to Balfonheim was after his blood, and he was being followed by a dead man who probably also wanted him dead.

Oh indeed, a slightly bitter voice in the back of Balthier's mind stated, everything was going just swimmingly.

The security at the docking doors was laughable and he strolled through without incident into the cool, oil stench and thick shadows of an empty docking bay. His feet reverberating over the metal grated gantry. Yes this would do nicely; isolated, full of potentially lethal blunt implements, and disturbingly lacking of any witnesses. His pursuer should thank him for finding such an advantageous location for an ambush.

Balthier stopped abruptly once he felt he had delved deep enough into the metallic green and grey shadows of the docking bay. He stared out at the empty space between the dangling clamps which would hold an airship in dock, had there been one in situ.

He considered his options with lightning quick pace, decided that he had precious few of them and decided therefore that improvisation was the better part of valour.

He heard the docking bay doors slide open again behind him and in the distance behind the heavy, limp machinery. The quick clomp-swish of another man's feet over the grating was almost insulting loud; could the man not even attempt stealth for the sake of propriety?

Balthier shook his head woefully as he waited for whatever was about to happen next; he suspected that, live or die, he was not going to enjoy the next few minutes all that much at all.

Of all the people in Ivalice to come after him now, it would have to be _him _wouldn't it?

'Aeneas,' Balthier whispered, brows riding low on his forehead, 'why you?'

There was no answer immediately forthcoming as, split seconds later, a hand landed on his shoulder and jerked him around to face his aggressor. Balthier allowed himself to be turned around where he stood only to have the barrel of a very nice custom designed gun shoved into his face; he blinked down the barrel and stared into a pair of bright green eyes.

'Hello mate; been a while, hasn't it?' Aeneas grinned and flexed his finger on the trigger of the gun.

* * *

**702O.V. Chantilier's Rest**

_The pipe smoking woman in the a dark, smoke wreathed corner of the cantina, chuckled silkily around the enamelled pipe and gestured with one long nailed hand for him to join her at the table._

'An' who might y'be, me young sir?' _She purred rheumy yellow eyes peering up at him as he walked blithely passed the heavily muscled Humes, Bangaa, and Seeq filling the cheerful seashell and nautically themed interior of the cantina. _

'Someone with a pressing desire to speak with Mary-Belle,' _Balthier resisted the urge to swipe a hand before his face to disperse some of the heady, dizzying smoke. He breathed carefully through his mouth, trying not to ingest too much of the smoke. _'My apologies madam but I am somewhat pressed for time,' _he began with smooth civility. _'If you could direct me to the lady Mary-Belle I would be much obliged.'

'Is dat right, eh? An' what you be offerin' for dat information?'

_The woman smiled wider, flashing a set of hideously rotted and blackened teeth. Balthier forced himself not to recoil in distaste and kept his impatience and growing annoyance from his countenance. Why was it that the criminal element insisted on playing these silly games? _

_He shrugged delicately and held up his hands, _'I offer nothing more than assurance that the venerable lady should receive the item she commissioned on time.' _Balthier was aware of the assembled ruffians forming a loose knot at his back and restrained a sigh; bloody mercenary thugs, the whole lot of them._

_Mary-Belle, for Balthier knew it was she sitting at the table, watched him keenly with her milky eyes and broken teeth. Her hand, the one not holding the pipe, idly strayed to stroke over the worn lace thrill just barely covering her amble bosom. Idly Balthier found himself missing Remus; at least with that old air-dog all he had to worry about was being beaten bloody. _

_The woman's laughter was low and slithery like a serpent, _'You speak in riddles, me young Archadian master; I am but a po' woman dat don' know much o' de worl'. I say again, what do you offer for de whereabouts o' dis Mary-Belle you be seekin' so ardently, eh?'

_Her hand, covered with a multitude of metal and bone rings dyed a variety of garish colours, stroked over her heavy breasts, drawing the eye to the deep shadowed cleft and the almost purple sheen to her deep ebony skin. _

_Balthier looked, because it was obvious he was supposed to, but he found himself wondering what it was about this town that had such affect on the women-folk; first Ruthy and now this assassin; unless of course Balthier simply had an unfortunate tendency to attract attention from the wrong sort of females?_

_A small childish part of his mind whispered, I want to go home. The eighteen year old Balthier simply pasted his most charming half smirk onto his face and continued on with all the false confidence he could muster, which just so happened to be considerable._

'If I am able to speak with the lady within the next few minutes, _he continued smoothly smile never faltering even as the hair on the nape of his neck rose on end and the assorted reprobates at his back began circling._ 'I may be able to offer a supplementary sinecure or enticement,' _His smile broadened, as he watched a tiny frown appear on the woman's brow and her interest sharpened noticeably; her hand dropped away from her bosom. Trust a mercenary to catch the scent of profit and perk up like a hungry Lobo._

'An' what might dat be, dat you be offerin' to Mary-Belle?'

'With all due respect, gracious madam, that is something I should really discuss with Mary-Belle in person.' _He met the woman's yellow eyes without flinching. _'I shall ask again; do you happen to know where I might find the lady?'

'What be your name sir?' _the woman asked Balthier something sharp and keen in those smoke stained eyes. _

'I am Balthier, madam,' _He took care to offer her his very best Arcadian bow, _'And who might I have the pleasure of speaking to, may I ask?'

_The woman's eyes widened slightly and he could almost feel a ripple of interest, or suspicion, run through the thugs at his back. _'You be Remus' boy den?'

_Balthier allowed a slight frown to show on his brow as he straightened from his bow and his smile turned just slightly caustic, _'I am not sure I care for the connotations of that title, but for the sake of brevity, I'll refrain from taking offence.' _He gave the woman another slight bow, _'Now am I to be granted with your name, fair lady, or should I live on in ignorance?'

_The woman laughed again, and once more the sound was the rustle of cold blooded creatures in long grasses. Almost sub-consciously Balthier wondered what would happen if Ruthy and this woman were locked in a room together. Rather swiftly he jettisoned the thought; some things did not bear thinking on._

'I 'ad 'eard dat you spoke ver' prettily, young master Balthier; I 'eard also dat you 'ad brains enough in y'ead for two.' _She tapped her gnarled and sharply pointed needle nails on the wrought iron table top, smiling. _'Can you not guess who I be?'

_Balthier resisted rolling his eyes and reminded himself that this woman and everyone in this smoky little cantina could kill him in a hundred different way before he could blink; a certain amount of caution and good manners was merely good sense under the circumstances._

_He maintained his smile, _'I would not dream of being so presumptuous madam, especially not with a lady I have not been formally introduced to.'

_The woman smiled again but something in her demeanour suggested she had grown bored with her own games. She sat up a little straighter in her chair, tapped out the spent smoking weed from her pipe and laid it on the table top. _

'I am Mary-Belle,' _she finally admitted looking up at him coolly and gesturing for him to be seated across the table from her. _

'Marvellous.' _Balthier graciously complied, taking seat with his back boldly to the rest of the room and the only exit. _

'What can you offer me, Balthier?' _Mary-Belle asked him without false coyness or overt suggestion, _'Your master already promised dat you would bring to me de Landis Phoenix.'

'I have the object in my possession madam,' _He smiled sunnily, _'however I would make a……addendum…..to the agreement you made with Remus.' _He gestured airily with one hand before deliberately breaking eye contact to fuss with one of his cuffs, _'I have a means of ensuring that you can re-coup the Gil you will lose paying for the Phoenix, Madam.'

_The yellow eyes narrowed and the rest of the room held its collective breath, _'How? Does Remus not wan' his Gil now?' _she chuckled raspily and the rest of the room joined in with sycophantic nervousness. _

_Balthier chuckled with the rest, _'Oh indeed, he does want his payment, all of it, on delivery of the Phoenix. What I can offer you is the value of the Phoenix repaid through the commission of a small favour.'

_Mary-Belle frowned, _'an' what dat favour be?'

_Carefully Balthier removed and uncreased the folded wanted bill with his picture on it he had taken from the tavern. _'Firstly, may I ask a question?' _he queried mildly. Mary-Belle watched him warily, eyes flicking to the piece of paper, but she nodded after a moment. _

'Would you happen to be responsible for all bills of mark pertaining to the apprehension of the more intelligent game in Ivalice; primarily of the Hume variety?' _He asked deliberately obtuse._

_Mary-Belle's frown deepened as she made sense of that statement, _'I be de only one dat places bounties on de 'eads o' men, yes.'

'Indeed?' _Balthier's smile returned, _'So you would be interested to know that there are at least two bounty-hunters in your fair city operating without you knowledge at this very moment, then?'

_He pushed the mark bill across the table and gave Mary-Belle a moment to read it. He watched as something monstrously ugly flared in her wet, blood-shot eyes. She looked up at him, lips skinned back from her hideous teeth. _

'Dey will be dead by sundown.' _Mary-Belle turned to one of her attendant cut-throats, _'Find dose responsible for dis an' 'ave dem cut int' collops.' _The silent Seeq lackey nodded his large tusked head once and turned to go. Mary-Belle spoke again, catching his largely muscled and tree-trunk wide arm._ 'I want de 'eads as trophies for me wall.'

_Balthier frowned, this was not to his liking; _'Ahem, madam, if I may interject?'

_Both the huge Seeq and Mary-Belle gave him identical looks of bloodthirsty annoyance but after two and half years in Remus and Ruthy's company such looks bounced off Balthier's unruffled veneer like low level spells of a Shell shield. He smiled politely. _'There is the matter of our negotiation, hmm?'

_Mary-Belle flapped a be-ringed hand, _'You wantin' payment for bringin' dis to me 'ttention?' _she wagged one finger at him in light scold. _'But I seen de bill, chile, you benefit from dese bounty-hunters deat' more den anyone; your life be your payment.'

_Balthier lost his smile, _'Then you do not want the Gil offered as reward madam? You are prepared to lose the opportunity to gain the Phoenix for nothing by recompensing your payment to Remus with the reward offered by Dr Cid, hmm?'

_All eyes, in many different shades of merciless and bloodthirsty fixed on him; Balthier, characteristically, rose to the occasion. _

'As I said when I came in madam; I can make you very wealthy. All I ask is that wait to remove the rogue bounty hunters.' _He paused thoughtfully, _'Actually there is one more thing I would ask of you – hmm, best make that one and half in actual fact.'

_Mary-Belle blinked at him, _'What dat be?'

'A woman called Ruthy will come to you, in something like a days time, and tell you that Remus cannot deliver on his side of the bargain you reached; she will state that Remus has no intention of handing over the Landis Phoenix.'

_The yellowed eyes were narrowed to slits, _'an' will she be tellin' de trut'?'

'No, though due to unforeseen circumstances that have to do with the rogue bounty-hunters, the delivery will be slightly delayed. What I ask is that you refrain from killing Remus, or Ruthy; though I appreciate that is a great temptation.'

'An in return?' _something in those garish eyes and foul smile suggested that Mary-Belle had sniffed out his plot. _'You will do what, chile?'

_Balthier smiled charmingly his voice as smooth as butter and as pervasive as the addictive smoke filling the cantina, _'Why is it not obvious, my dear lady?' _he chuckled richly, _'You shall receive not only the Landis Phoenix – but the bounty on my own lucrative self as well.'

* * *

**Rabanastre Aerodrome: 707O.V.**

Balthier sighed and rattled his wrists in the stocks, 'Is this really necessary?' he asked tiredly.

'With a serpent as sly as you, mate, you bet your last Gil it is.' Aeneas continued to herd Balthier towards his own airship, the Rapture. He pressed the gun into Balthier's shoulder blades to push him forward.

'You are looking well for a dead man, Aeneas.' Balthier murmured conversationally as he cast his eye over the white and blue airship, which some what resembled a larger, newer, less refined Strahl.

'Could say the same for you, Balthier; pretty impressive what you did with that queen of yours on the Bahamut.'

'Thank you,' Balthier murmured blandly as his former friend opened the outer doors of the ship and lowered the boarding ramp. Balthier arched a brow. 'Nice ship,' he added a touch snidely. Aeneas shoved him in the back, refraining from comment.

Within a short period of time, and one not really worth documenting, Balthier found himself ensconced in a cabin evidently modelled on the interior of the Strahl and chained to the co-pilot's chair. He regarded the décor sceptically.

'You really should not have attempted to replace the ship's original fixtures; S-class fixtures do not look right in a T-class airship.' He murmured as Aeneas began launch proceedings.

'Shut up,' the red head demanded. Balthier chuckled. It occurred to him that in the years since he had last seen Aeneas there roles had reversed. He could have rather a lot of fun with this current set of circumstances. Still he did not have the time to indulge in petty spite – mores the pity.

Balthier heaved a sigh as he looked out at the fluffy white clouds in the deep azure sky that always reigned over the country of Dalmasca. 'I suppose there is little point in asking where I am being taken, hmm?'

'Not much, save hearing the sound of your own voice.' Aeneas agreed with a certain measure of snideness himself. Balthier but refrained from making comment. There were more pressing issues at stake than his pride.

'How long have you been in Eraldo Lumineres employ Aeneas?' he asked mildly.

Balthier had come to this conclusion almost instantly when it became apparent that Aeneas was not intent on killing him outright. There was only one man (that Balthier knew of, in any respect) who might want him brought up in chains and that was Lumineres. The conveniences of the situation, especially as he had been looking to find means to get to the man and the captive Vaan in the first place, did nothing to mitigate the annoyance Balthier felt. He did not enjoy wearing manacles, regardless of the fact that he was so often sporting them.

Aeneas turned sharply to look at him, his hands tightening reflexively on the steering levers and Balthier had to resist chastising him for sloppy piloting. He was not expecting the vehement heat of Aeneas' furious response to the disinterested question.

'Ever since you killed off Nylous, Remus, and Ruthy, ran off with some Viera, and left me out of employment, you bloody arrogant bastard.'

Balthier blinked and sat back in his seat, 'Ah…' he said a little perturbed, 'as long as that, hmm?'

It was probably just as well for Balthier that Aeneas did not bother to reply. In fact Balthier decided that silence was probably the best policy to adopt for the rest of the flight. He closed his eyes, stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles and feigned sleep, much to Aeneas annoyance, for the rest of the trip.

Well one thing was for certain, Balthier mused to himself behind his closed eyelids as Bhujerba approached, things were about to get rather interesting from here on in.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty: 707 O.V. Onboard the Rapture**

_A/N: Hello there! Much to my surprise I've actually managed to get this chapter out on time, and when I promised (yay me!). I also think that chapter 21 might be turning up sooner rather than later too – maybe even very soon. The wheels are turning again, the writer's block surpassed, and with this chapter the story has just gone off on a tangent I wasn't expecting. Balthier's having what we Brit's refer to as a bit of a tizzy, among other things. _

* * *

'Whatever you hope to achieve by giving yourself up, it will not help you.'

Aeneas' voice interrupted Balthier's vaguely meditative doze, he opened his eyes and turned his head, politely quirking one eyebrow in inquiry, 'Pardon?'

Aeneas almost smiled. 'I know you,' Was all he said however. Balthier's other brow rose to join the first.

'I'm aware of that fact, thank you.'

Balthier glanced out through the wide glass front of the Rapture and shifted in his chair. The bright cerulean sky and cheerful cumulus clouds drifting by the airship did not well reflect the oddly introspective mood he found himself in. He glanced over at the steering block of the Rapture and the various knobs and do-dads on the Rapture's central control panel as a form of distraction.

'Is that a ventrilated unilateral flight adaptor unit?' he asked moving forward for a better look despite the restriction of his shackled wrists.

Aeneas looked down at his console as if he had not previously been aware of the state-of-the-art equipment. 'Yes,' a smile did break free upon his generous mouth at that point, 'don't even think of stealing it; you'll be dead by tomorrow morning.'

Balthier did not bother to dignify that with response and instead continued to ponder the interior of the Rapture's front cabin, 'Hmm, where as I stand by my assertion that an airship should be kept in the fashion it was designed for, I must confess that this is by no means the worst airship I have ever spent time in.'

Aeneas laughed outright, 'Bloody hell mate, was that supposed to be a compliment?'

Balthier glanced back out at the wide blue sky; he brushed his fingers over his water stained cuffs and he hesitated for a moment. 'I really did think you were dead, Aeneas.' He said eventually.

There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere between the two men after that utterance. It grew darker and yet, simultaneously, less strained, 'You are almost as bad at apologies as you are at compliments.' Aeneas told him mildly after an appreciable pause.

Balthier continued to look out towards the distant, but rapidly approaching, Parvama, 'It was not an apology,' he drawled nonchalantly raising his shackled wrists so he could pick at a loose gold thread in his sleeve, 'had I been cognizant of your continued existence upon the face of Ivalice I dare say I would not have acted in any way different than I did in my ignorance.' He glanced briefly at Aeneas, 'You would have betrayed me sooner or later.'

'Well,' Aeneas said mildly surprised, 'pirates will be pirates, mate.'

'Hmm,' Balthier slumped back into his seat, not particularly caring to stand by his dignity or sense of proprietary. He tugged at his sleeve a little more aggressively plucking at the loose stitching until the thin gold thread began to come loose between his fingers. Carefully he worked the thread free of the fine cotton.

'Pirates may be pirates Aeneas,' Balthier rejoined paying no particular attention to his own words, 'but some of us are not hidebound by the habits of the lowest common denominator amongst our number.'

Something was brewing in his hindbrain and for that reason Balthier did not take note of the aggrieved and irritated look Aeneas gave him. It was not precisely a thought, or even a series of thoughts that so captivated him. Balthier was a man well accustomed to thinking to a fine degree of complexity and rapidity after all. Balthier thought, he schemed and he calculated; that was what he did. The outcome of those quicksilver musings percolating in his brain faster than most people could comprehend would be debated, morally and intellectually, for years after he had ceased to be, but no man, woman, or intelligent beast-of-burden, could argue that Balthier was a very clever man.

Therefore it might surprise any casual observer who just so happened through some strange oddity of chance or alchemy to find themselves within the confines of Balthier's turbulent mind at this particular moment, to discover that the man in question was wrestling with something that was not quite a thought but instead altogether more significant.

_Pirates will be pirates……Was that really any sort of justification for a life led to the tune of betrayal?_

'Is he much harmed?'

Balthier asked abruptly jumping tangentially from one subject to another without any form of subtle segue to ease the conversation way. Partly this was because most of his attention was taken up with the task of unravelling the peculiar and enigmatic epiphany of insight that remained frustratingly just out of his grasp. Partly it was because he did not see that his kidnapper, a man who did not have the courtesy to stay dead and impartial, did not deserve such courtesy in the first place.

'Is who harmed?' Aeneas was confused for all of a second and then he frowned, bright green eyes narrowing, 'Oh you mean that daft bloody Dalmascan brat?'

'Yes the daft Dalmascan,' Balthier felt a tiny tinge of irritation filter through his unusually muddy thoughts. Why in the name of all the gods he did not believe in, did it bother him to hear Vaan be so maligned? He had called the boy far worse than 'daft' to his own face before. He decided that it was merely proprietary pique on his part: only Balthier was allowed to insult his own 'protégé' with impunity. Yes, that must be it. Balthier pursed his lips and spoke with careful neutrality; studied in his disinterest.

'I know Eraldo would not do permanent harm to Vaan, but the Master of the Darkside Parvama is well known for his…….eccentricities.' Balthier pursed his lips, 'And Vaan is rather to his tastes, unless I am much mistaken.'

Aeneas glanced at him askance and he too looked a little uneasy, 'Roughed up a bit, but otherwise unharmed. Eraldo wasn't sure the boy would be bait enough for you – so he decided to wait on doing anything drastic to the halfwit; in case you needed further enticement.'

Another twist in the serpents' nest of Balthier's thoughts struck deep at Aeneas' words.

'Hmm, as one who has been on the receiving end of a "rough up" I can say with some certainty that there is no "bit" at all. A punch from a knuckleduster does not hurt in degrees; a lash from a whip cannot be "just a bit of a flesh wound".'

Despite the dryness of his tone a thread of genuine anger lit through Balthier's words. Somewhere deep within the tangle of contradictions that made up the stitch work of Balthier's soul, a tempest rumbled to life. There was, albeit subtle and deeply buried, something of a seismic shift taking place within the topography of Balthier's unique and idiosyncratic conscience.

'If I discover that you had a hand in Vaan's less than hospitable treatment I can assure you that your true and lasting demise will be rather soon in coming.' He did not look at Aeneas as he spoke and did not really note the strange and piercing look the other man gave him. He was to busy thinking.

Balthier had spent most of his adult life consorting (and strenuously avoiding) a veritable gallery of rogues, charlatans, and madmen of varying degrees of magnitude and extravagance. Considering his lineage and descent it could be reasonably argued that he had had very little exposure to any Hume, Bangaa, or Seeq who was not in some way morally questionable or quite blatantly insane. Nevertheless Balthier had had the miserable occasion to make the dubious acquaintance of one or two genuine monsters in his time as well - those rare men and women who took cruelty and avarice to new levels.

Vayne Solidor had been one such hume-clad monster; a man who was almost elegant in his complete lack of compassion or conscience. Balthier's own father had made a science out of lunacy and while Eraldo Lumieres was not in the league of men like Cidolfus or the elder Solidor scion, but he was comparable to those great and vaulted monsters of ambition and ego in cruelty if not in achievement.

'You are saying that had I called Eraldo's bluff and refused to make myself available for capture and trade, he would have begun harvesting bits of Vaan's flesh and dispatching them to me to catch my attention?'

Even as he spoke Balthier continued to stare out at the bright, bright blue sky while anger and emotion of an entirely different sort whiplashed through his thoughts. Keeping his voice tinder dry and mild Balthier's eyes remained fixed on that empty horizon.

'I understand that was the course of action with Largosh Manurama's daughter; a severed finger a day until the man gave up his livelihood to Lumieres.' Balthier could not keep the heated scorn from touching his tone as he thought about that act of depravity perpetrated for a pittance.

Aeneas shrugged the silk of his shirt whispering over the upholstery of his chair, 'Manurama had fair warning; he should have paid up the protection Gil when asked,' another shrug and another facile justification, 'pirates will be pirates.'

'Yes quite,' the snap in Balthier's tone surprised them both. Rather savagely Balthier plucked again at the loose thread until the gold came free completely from the delicate weave of his expensive (and now ruined) shirt. He palmed the thread before Aeneas could see it.

Since the fiasco that was the Bervenia mess, Balthier had been twisting in the merciless winds of fierce dissatisfaction. He was sick of his notoriety and nascent celebrity; he had chased the elusive gift of fame for three years and now he had it, it was a poisoned chalice indeed. He was sick of being held to a standard of sobriety and moral rectitude he bloody well had never asked for by those with arrogance enough to consider themselves his 'friends'. Yet he was equally tired of the backbiting and viciousness inherent within his chosen 'profession'.

He just didn't know what to do about any of it. It seemed a tad to soon to fake his own death again.

'Frankly mate, I'm surprised at you. All this gnashing your teeth over some sand caked street urchin. I thought for sure you'd demand a couple of severed digits from Eraldo just to prove he weren't wasting your time; never figured you'd walk so easily into his trap.'

Aeneas began their descent towards the large parvama of Bhujerba, the thick blanket of cloud parting for them like a curtain and the glittering, feather-like protrusions of magicite became visible striking out into the air like a cradle of crystal thorns enshrining Ondore's pride and joy.

'You think I'd demand my own bloody apprentice be mutilated as an opening gambit for negotiation?' Balthier's voice lacked its usual musical cadence. There was a leaden quality to it. Shame, heavy and cloying clogged the back of his throat and weighed down his tongue.

Balthier wondered at himself. Aeneas was right in many ways and yet wrong in too many to count. Balthier had never feared monsters be they hume or otherwise, but he had never considered himself among their number. It occurred to him, with odd piquancy, that perhaps that was the problem? Should a man not, in fact, fear to tread where there be monsters? What did it say of him, that Balthier was as familiar with the way of monsters as he was the back of his own hand?

His former friend had been watching sideways as the Rapture drifted down towards the docking port. 'Mate, you are not going to convince me you care bugger-all for that sand-defecating backwards retard.' Aeneas smiled, 'Now if it was that Viera of yours, maybe I'd believe all this solemnity and concern, but that brat is nothing to you. He's _beneath_ you.'

Balthier's neck twisted and the contortion of the muscles brought his head around in turn. He just looked at Aeneas for the longest moment as the Rapture settled down in the dock of the Darkside Parvama on the farthest western edge of Bhujerba. It was a very un-Balthier like look. It was a tired look. He had not smiled once, or even thought to feign it.

'You do not know me.' He said simply and turned away once more, thoughts racing.

As the airship docked and members of Lumieres militia swarmed out of the antiquated stone palace Eraldo called his own Balthier examined the back of his hands with odd intent. The thin twine of gold thread he had completely pulled free of his cuff was wrapped around his palm three times; its tensile strength was surprisingly impressive.

His thoughts danced like quicksilver as the seconds ticked by.

When was the last time he had really bothered to look at the backs of his own hands he wondered? There was usually no point in doing so except to ensure he still had all his digits. Nevertheless did Balthier he really know the contours, tone, pigmentation and various minute imperfections upon the back of his hands all that well?

Honestly, had he ever before noticed that his left thumb was slightly stumpier than his right or that his little fingers were surprisingly long in relation to his other digits? What about that little sun blotch on his right hand; had he noted that tiny mole before – would he have known it was there without looking?

He'd been wandering around with these hands attached to the ends of his arms for twenty-three years; why had he never taken the time to study them? A man should know his own hands. A man should know all aspects of himself. It was only prudent.

Was the man Balthier saw in the mirror the same reflection of intent that others saw? Could he be sure of his own impressions when he knew so little of his own anatomy? Was the reason that he had become increasingly frustrated with the likes of Hamish Fon Denbak, Vaan, and her Highness Ashe really because_ they_ refused to give up their delusions about his character, or because _he_ could not see beyond his own?

He had assisted, rather substantially in both counts, in the salvation of all Ivalice on two occasions. Most men would consider this an admirable achievement. Why fore then did Balthier chafe under the looks of honest admiration he was occasioned to see – but, paradoxically, live for the thrill of infamy?

When, precisely, had disappointing people become a goal more desirable than living up to his comrades' good opinion? Or was he truly so indolent that it was too much effort to try?

Who was he trying to disappoint – and with whom was he so angry?

Balthier knew himself to be a lie, a caricature, a player in a drama with no discernable script nor reason to it – but did he know what the truth was beyond the ruse? Had he ever bothered to try and find out?

For that matter had he ever once bloody well asked Fran why she put up with him? Had he ever queried sweet and trusting Penelo why it was, despite being a less than charitable acquaintance and openly disparaging to the needs of her and her darling Vaan, she still maintained absolute faith that he would rescue Ratsbane Vaan?

For that matter when was the last time he had actually bothered to listen to a word any of his self-proclaimed 'friends' had said to him? Had he ever had a genuine conversation with Vaan?

The thought of what manner of experience such a conversation would be made him shudder and gave Balthier considerable pause. Gods be damned but he'd sooner be swung from his ankles and pelted with Chocobo dung than converse with Vaan. Yet, if he really distained the youth that much, why had he loaned him the Strahl, and taught him to bloody well fly her in the first place?

He'd killed for that ship; he'd done things of indisputable ugliness to attain the Strahl once and for all and yet he had given her over for an entire year to a youth with all the wit and sparkle of a dried up potato. Had he ever bothered to ask himself why he had done that?

Balthier had told Aeneas that the other man did not know him at all, but if that be the case then whom out there truly did know him?

As the Rapture's cabin door opened and Aeneas rose from his chair and gestured impatiently for Balthier to rise as well, Balthier found himself questioning certain previously held conceits and absolutes.

Pirates will be pirates hmmm? But what was a pirate, truly? Surely merely having a ship or an airship was not the only qualification? Pirates will be pirates, or so it is said, but what authority defines the mores of the pirate? Was that not the true power of king-hood and was he not the heir apparent to Reddas' abandoned mantle?

The quilt work of Balthier's complicated mentality began to mesh together in a new pattern; thoughts churning and motivations shifting like the turning of the breeze.

As the only natural successor to Reddas, did Balthier not have the right, nay, _the duty_, to define the proper etiquette of piracy? Was that not also a trifle hard to do when Balthier himself had accidentally fallen into a rather thorny existential quandary?

A strange smile twitched upon Balthier's lips as he followed Aeneas without comment and disembarked the Rapture, stepping out into the breezy heat of one of Bhujerba's less salubrious locales.

What was there to do when clever men found themselves without answers?

The smile on Balthier's face broadened as he raised his shackled wrists to his brow against the glare of the bright sun and looked upon the shambolic majesty of Eraldo's demesnes.

The answer was simplicity itself; when the clever man could not find his answers he must ask the fool.

It was time for Balthier and Vaan to have a conversation.

* * *

**702 O.V. Chantilier's Rest**

_If going back in time felt somewhat like having your vulnerable internal organs pulled up through one's oesophagus pickled in vinegar and then carefully pushed back down one's throat in a disorganised mess then returning to the period of time you left in order to go back in time, essentially, returning to the present, is decidedly more unpleasant. _

_In a time and place many decades in the future the aged Balthier, a man comfortable in his dotage and content to indulge the rabid interest of Ivalice for exciting ribald lies and fallacy, would come to put quill and ink to parchment and write an account of his life. It would sell very well indeed and make Balthier's numerous illegitimate offspring very wealthy bastards indeed. Still when it came time for Balthier to document this particular moment in his thrilling and misspent youth he would pause, offer up a delicate wince in memory, and decide to omit the whole sordid episode from the memoir. It would prove to be a very good editorial decision. _

_In the present, otherwise known, from a certain perspective, to be the past, the eighteen year old Balthier did not have the option of simply omitting the pain and disorientation from his experience. He collapsed to his knees in the shadows of the alleyway he had been in before his jaunt to the recent past and promptly voided the partially digested contents of his stomach in noisy and inelegant fashion._

'Bloody hell mate, you alright?' _Aeneas, who was fairly sure something odd had just happened but did not know what, jumped back as his friend collapsed and started violently vomiting on hands and knees upon the dirty cobblestones. _

_When the spasmodic shudders began to subside and his friend's shoulders relaxed fractionally – Balthier raising one hand from the filthy floor to wipe at his mouth and chin - Aeneas decided that the worst was clearly over. He detached his water canteen from his belt, removed the cork, and handed the canteen down to Balthier._

'Better now mate?'

_Balthier was mopping his face and brow with a handkerchief pulled from somewhere on his person. He glanced up at Aeneas with wane and ashen features; the scowl upon his brow a shadow of his usual distain._

'No,' _Balthier bit out petulantly. He took the canteen in fumbling hands and poured some of the water onto the handkerchief before mopping his face once more. He coughed weakly and looked distastefully down at the mess he had made across the cobbles, _'Oh just lovely.'

_On wobbling legs he rose to his feet, swaying a little and Aeneas reached out to take his elbow in case his friend should fall. Balthier blinked at him in surprise before almost instinctively pulling free of Aeneas' helping hand. He took a gulp of the water from Aeneas' canteen, swirled it in his mouth and spat it out. _

'This is not one of my better days,' _he conceded drinking a little more of the water. Aeneas was about to agree but then a whimsical thought came to his mind._

'Yeah, but mate, at least you aren't a virgin anymore, right?'

_Balthier's dark eyes narrowed and slid sideways to glower at him with somewhat more vehemence then he had managed previously. _'You are a vulgar slob.'

_Aeneas smirked, _'Nah mate, Ardent all the way, me, got the chops and papers to prove it.' _He winked. Balthier glared a little more before his own lips quivered in amusement. _

'May I keep this?' _Ignoring the previous line of conversation, even though his eyes still sparked with acknowledged humour, Balthier held up the canteen. Aeneas flapped his hands in assent._

'Not like I want it back; don't want to catch what-all malady you've got.'

_Balthier rolled his eyes and reached down to the place against the dirty wall of the ramshackle building where the Landis Phoenix rested in a bier of broken coloured glass and moss. _'Somehow I doubt what ails me has any interest in you.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' _The red headed youth demanded but his friend did not answer._

_Aeneas began trailing after his friend as Balthier left the alleyway, at first moving with wary caution down the winding lanes, and then with growing intent. It did not take long to realise that Balthier was heading towards the place the Antarii was docked - he was headed straight for Remus._

'Balthier….mate….'

'Don't make me hit you again, Aeneas,' _Balthier did not bother to look over his shoulder as he spoke sounding much more like his usual coolly self-assured self. _'You will not stop me, but if it will assist you in your own games of intrigue, I'm prepared to beat you quite soundly so that Ruthy does not suspect you betrayed her scheme.'

_Aeneas winced as he realised that it would not look good for him to appear at Balthier's side. Aeneas, unlike Balthier, was expendable and both Ruthy and Remus had been known to 'expend' a very great number of their crew when those crewmembers annoyed them. _

'Well,' _he stopped trying to decide what to do. _

_Aeneas was in Ruthy's pocket and had been for sometime. For the gods own sake, he was being paid to spy on Balthier (which his friend was well aware of) and in truth it made more sense for him to try and stop Balthier from saving Remus than it did for him to foolishly follow him. Still Aeneas was nothing if not an opportunist and with Balthier bound and determined to rescue Remus it seemed to him that Ruthy's days were numbered. Perhaps it was time Aeneas turned his coat? _

_While he deliberated the course of most personal gain Balthier had stopped and was watching him in the seaside gloomy night with what passed for patience on his countenance. If nothing else Balthier had learned that most people did not think as swiftly as he did - though he did not know what made them so gods-be-damned slow._

_Aeneas looked like he was in some discomfort; deep and swift reasoning not being an exercise he was much accustomed to. Balthier hesitated for a moment as his mind moved at lightning pace considering all his various possible actions and how they might lead to his optimum advantage. In the end he decided to be beneficent and assist his friend in his painful deliberations – or at least bring the agony to a swift end._

_He walked forward, the Landis Phoenix loosely grasped in his left hand and swinging from the end of his arm gently. _

'Aeneas….' _He began in reasonable tones. _

_Aeneas looked up, his green eyes catching the faint and unreliable light of a street lantern mounted to the façade of a house across the street. Those eyes were alight with the hope that he would be saved from having to make his own decisions. He did not react in any way to protect himself as Balthier closed the final distance between them and swung his arm, the Phoenix hanging like a dead weight from his hand, up in an underarm swing. The Landis Phoenix connected with almost elegant inevitability with Aeneas' face and the neophyte sky pirate went down like a ton of bricks. _

'This is really for your own good,' _Balthier caught his friend's unconscious body before he landed face first onto the utterly revolting cobblestones. Dragging him into the dubious safety of the shadows of an alley behind a small apothecary shop, Balthier arranged his friend into a slumped sitting position and left him to wake as and when he would. _

'Well now,' _Balthier brushed his hands down his shirt and checked the general wear and tear of his cuffs, _'I suppose it is time to see a man about a coup, hmm?'

_Discerning that his cuffs were in serviceable condition Balthier walked away from his unconscious friend and sauntered confidently towards the last place Remus had been ensconced within this city. He was fairly confident (assuming his conversation with Mary-Belle had happened in something passing for reality and not merely formed part of a peculiar delusion) that Remus would still be polluting the air of Ivalice with his continued presence, which suited Balthier's purposes very well for the moment. _

_Now he just had to save Ruthy and ensure that this whole bizarre fiasco could be delicately manoeuvred to suit his own over-aching schemes. _

_As he walked, the Landis Phoenix a comfortable weight in his left hand, Balthier began to whistle a jaunty tune. Behind his back the glooming sky bloomed into swathes of dark blue and sea green as the sun threatened the darkling fringe of the horizon out beyond the ocean deeps. _

_Balthier was, at that moment, supremely confident that the new day would a great improvement on yesterday – and of course, should tomorrow prove to be a disappointment he could just go back in time and fix it, couldn't he?_

_Balthier lifted the Phoenix in his hand and smiled beneficently upon it. What a delightful ornament the Phoenix had proved to be. He would be quite sorry to see it go._

* * *

**707 O.V: The Demesnes of Eraldo Lumieres**

Velvet drapes and scantily clad slave girls were one thing, Balthier may speculate on the insipient bad taste in such fixtures of villainous abodes, but he accepted them as part of the basic fabric of such things, still the chained and collared Bander Couerls, their dark green coats dyed in fantastical (and fantastically hideous) shades of rainbow hue were something a tad unusual.

Balthier paused in his progress through the black veined pink marble chamber, where he was wedged between a trio of nameless ruffians of the shaven headed and obscenely muscular variety, to look at the domesticated fiends indigenous to the sweeping hills and hinterlands of Balfonheim.

'Hmm,' Balthier watched one of the confused creatures slink forward on his belly and haunches towards him, tail up and long cranial tendrils erected, teeth bared and the crackle of Thundaga on the air, with mild curiosity. 'I suppose it makes a statement; though I am beggared to guess what that statement pertains to.'

'Keep moving!' a meaty hand was shoved into the small of his back and Balthier stumbled a step forward. There were a number of other people in this large entrance chamber, some whom appeared to be Bhujerban locals and some whose bearing loudly proclaimed them to be pirates. One such pirate pulled the creeping Bander Couerl up short on the end of its jewel encrusted choke collar.

What happened next was as predictable as it was unpleasant.

The Bander Couerl screamed in a rumbling manner and twisted back with savage grace upon its own body length. Teeth flashed in the sunlight, claws extended and thundaga crackled and seconds later there was a very dead pirate holding onto the end of a gold linked chain. The Bander Couerl fell upon the still twitching corpse and the rest of the blank eyed on-lookers scattered to the far corners of the large, airy chamber.

Balthier was further prodded onward by his taciturn escort as three other Couerls, one dyed a frankly painful shade of sunset orange, bounded over, stretching the limits of their chains, to fight over the remains. Wet crunching sounds filled the pink marble and white silk draped chamber and the stench of entrails curled like acrid, primal incense into the sinuses. Balthier sneezed.

'Ah,' he mused aloud fishing out his handkerchief, 'I had wondered how Eraldo was feeding them.' Before he reached the doors set into the far corner of the chamber Balthier noted that many of the people filling the chamber were chained in similar fashion to the fiends, but at the ankles and with chains of iron not gold. He cocked his head to the side

'I suppose it is a novel way of disposing of one's opponents; still I dare say the blood must play havoc with the floor polish.'

His escort did not prove to be much for conversation on the ins and outs of it all, however, and without further commentary Balthier was herded through the double doors and into a long corridor. He looked about him critically.

The white walls bore cracks and marks giving the place the impression of soiled opulence. There was the scent of something rank and meaty in the air and Balthier firmly scolded himself for even beginning to speculate on what the odour might be.

His sandal clad feet made soft slapping sounds over the broken mosaic floor times. He noticed that someone had attempted to fill the gaps and holes in the tiny squares of kiln baked sapphire blue and jade green tiles with white plaster. He wondered who would have bothered and then decided it was a trivial consideration.

Eventually Balthier was escorted to a pitted and ugly door; said door was then opened without ceremony and with a less than charming squeal of un-oiled hinges and Balthier was, once again without ceremony, shoved forward through the threshold.

There was a step down into the dingy little cell room (for that, of course, was with the room was) and Balthier had to catch his balance, like a couerl with his hands shackled awkwardly together, to prevent landing on the straw and filth lined floor of the cell face first. Pivoting neatly on his heel he threw an arrogant look over his shoulder at the large brute in the process of slamming the cell door in his face.

'Excuse me my good sir, but I would infinitely prefer a cell of my own – preferably one with a view – and this one would appear to be occupied.'

The cell door clanging shut was his own rejoinder; instantly foul smelling and fetidly warm darkness swarmed over Balthier as he stood in the centre of the tiny box shaped stone walled cell. After a moment his eyes adjusted to the in-direct and poor light coming through the crack under the door and the cracks between the warped wooden shutters closed over the only window.

For a moment he simply stood in the centre of the cell cataloguing the various scents and sounds and sights he could detect in his environment as Fran had taught him to do. The cell smelt like the outhouse in a abattoir; the reek of Hume vulnerability and pain a near tangible thing. He could hear the wet rasp of another man breathing. An indistinct shape lying on a filthy, insect infested pallet of rotting straw shifted and rolled over. There was the wet gleam of eye-shine in the gloom.

'Balthier?' the voice was a diseased thread, and each quavered syllable shook with a weight of pain and weakness, but the flash of blood flecked teeth in a face that resembled nothing so much as one huge and advancing bruise was unmistakably a grin of pure welcome.

Balthier closed his eyes and sighed deeply before speaking; the rank taste of shame stronger than ever at the back of his throat.

'Hello Vaan.'

* * *

_A/N: me again. I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to Mandination, Iwantasoda, Obsidian Thunder, Omegarulesall, Franoncrack, Spookykins and last but certainly not least, Zaz9-Zaa0. I'm almost certain that I replied to some of your reviews for last chapter personally but I'm also sure I missed some of you out. Things got a bit hectic for me in June and I wasn't around much. Anyhoo I promise I will reply to all subsequent reviews personally from now on. As always thank you all for taking the time to read and review; I truly do appreciate it. ;)_


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One: 707 O.V. A Cell in the Demesne of Eraldo Lumineres**

'Hello Vaan.'

The rank odours of sweat, blood and the intangible scent of sickness and pain combined with that of rotting straw, rising damp and water-logged old stone. The resultant miasma was, to put it mildly, decidedly unpleasant.

The poor lighting did little to aid Balthier's squinted sight but he fancied that the middle of the floor in this tiny cell was perhaps the best place to be seated. He was just grateful his ensemble was already ruined; he'd hate to soil a good pair of cuffs on this filthy floor. Once he was comfortably seated (or as comfortable as one could get in a cell that smelled frankly atrocious) Balthier met the dull eye-shine gleam of Vaan's frank regard.

'Penelo?' Vaan was not restrained but he could not move all the same. His large, round features, still caught in that unfortunate in-between place, wherein he still had the hairless face of an insipid child perched atop the over-developed musculature of a stocky bruiser, was decorated in myriad shades of bruised and battered.

Balthier sighed. He had hoped for some sort of gentle segue into the thorny edges of the matter, perhaps pre-empted by a discussion about the weather. Alas Dalmascan's had no sense of conversational etiquette.

'Is not here,' he answered bluntly, but obtusely, rather less than delicately side-stepping the issue. Pride dictated that he not tell the boy that he had, due to a rather spectacular miscalculation of judgement on his part, lost poor Vaan's blue-eyed love. It was also best not to mention the fact that he had lost Fran and the Strahl as well, not to mention his one-time fiancée; yes, indeed, best not to mention _any_ of that.

Pulling the gold thread from around his right palm Balthier unravelled the twine and knelt by the, well, _bed _was not quite the right word: litter might be more apt. Swiftly and efficiently, having spent years honing his modest skill as a field medic, Balthier checked Vaan for obvious injuries.

'Wrap this around your wrist,' Balthier pushed the twine into Vaan's scrapped knuckled hand and closed those bloodied fingers around the thread. Vaan's skin was unpleasantly clammy, feverish but cool to the touch, like he had just been dredged up from the bottom of a shallow lake. The boy's passivity combined with his other hurts and general demeanour made it obvious that he was under the influence of Sap. His strength and vitality was literally being leeched from him with every breath he took and most likely this had been the state of things for the last several hours at least.

All of which was to be expected; Eraldo was nothing if not a creature of habit. Vile, perverse habit, but habit all the same.

Balthier eyed the string he had pushed into Vaan's hand sceptically. The thread was one of a number of similarly garish ornamentation Balthier habitually wore that served a greater purpose than furthering his vanity (though that was an important factor in his sartorial taste). He noticed that Vaan had twisted the thread around his thick fingers and was holding on tightly, like a man to a lifeline. The gold thread remained nothing more than a dull, brassy glitter in the poor lighting however and Balthier allowed himself some small measure of relief.

Vaan would recover, assuming the both of them managed to make it out of here with their heads still attached to their bodies.

'She's alright though, Penelo, she's alright, right Balthier?' Vaan, with the tenacity of the slow-witted ploughed right past Balthier's evasion. He was less coherent than even his usual predilections accorded and Balthier sighed in frustration. Yes, he had committed himself to talk to the boy, but did the brat have to pick such an awkward subject matter?

'Of course, she is with Fran, and was in fine fettle when last I saw her,' Balthier stated in bluff confident tones that made it clear that this particularly conversation had reached its natural end.

What he said was even true, in the purely literal sense. The last time he had seen Penelo she _had_ been with Fran in the Strahl. Of course the Strahl had been taken over by a sentient mantle ornament for some manner of mysterious and no doubt nefarious means at the time, but that was purely detail. Penelo _had_ been well at the time as well. Unfortunately it was during said time that Balthier himself, in a moment of rare and exquisite stupidity, had ripped the Phoenix out of the empty engine casing of the Strahl thus depriving the ship of its only means of propulsion.

All the good health and noble spirit in Ivalice would offer no protection to a crash landing from twenty thousand feet in the air.

Balthier winced and shook his head; negativity and worry without grounding in fact or a means to enact a reversal of such dire fortunes helped no one. He was confident that Fran had solved everything already and she and little Penelo were alive and well somewhere in Ivalice. After all if anyone could find a way to keep a dead airship in flight without an engine it was Fran.

'Hey Balthier?.......Balthier?'

Snapping out of his less than cheerful musings Balthier realised that Vaan had been trying to talk to him. He frowned, so far his attempts to treat Vaan like a peer if not an equal were not going all that well. Balthier was a creature of habit, as well, and summarily ignoring Vaan was a hard habit to break. Balthier resolved to try harder.

'Apologies Vaan, what did you say?'

The man-child blinked at him and Balthier noticed, as much as it was possible to tell in this gloom, that his colour was better and his breathing stronger. The gold thread was clearly beginning to affect a positive effect. Small mercies and all that, Balthier would not have relished explaining to either Penelo or her Highness Ashe that he had let the foolhardy youth die.

'Umm, I was asking what the plan was.' Vaan watched him with the vapid expectancy of a Dream Hare.

Balthier tugged at his brutalised sleeve and looked away, 'Plan?'

'Uh, yes, you know, how are we going to get out of here and you know, get vengeance?'

Balthier cocked an eyebrow and leaned back a little. A smirk threatened the edges of his lips, '"Get vengeance"?' he queried mostly straight faced. Only Vaan could couch bloody retribution in the same terms as purchasing a new suit of armour.

'Right,' Vaan nodded vigorously and had he possessed a tail it would have wagged.

Balthier shifted his position on the cold, unforgiving stone floor of the cell so that he could raise one knee and wrap his arms around his leg. 'Whatever gave you the impression that I was anything other than a fellow prisoner, hmm?'

'Huh?' The boy tried to lift his head from his filthy nest and most of the crushed straw went with him, twisted and embedded into his pale hair. 'But, I mean, you're……you're _Balthier_.'

'Thank you, yes, I know my own name.' Balthier gestured around him at their less than stellar accommodation. 'Vaan ask yourself this: if this was a rescue what possible advantage would there be in me getting myself locked up in this cell with you, hmm?'

A moment ticked by while Vaan gave this due thought, 'Umm, well, because it's you? And you never do things the easy way.' Vaan finally offered up staunchly. Balthier felt both brows fly up his forehead.

'Pardon?'

Vaan sat up. It was a laborious and painful process for Balthier to watch but eventually the boy had managed to swing his legs around so that he was sitting up and facing Balthier in the gloom.

'Yeah see, I know you,' Vaan told him voice gaining strength with each idiotic word he spoke, 'See this is just a really, um, _cunning _plan. You're going to wait for the, uh…um, the _opportune _moment to strike out at the guy who grabbed us. Probably there's some treasure or something deep in some catacombs under this castle and you want a way of getting to it so that you can steal it and get this Erwin guy at the same time.'

'Eraldo, Vaan, his name is _Eraldo_.'

Balthier corrected almost absently as he considered Vaan's assessment; the truly horrifying thing about it all, beyond the sheer lunacy of the idea, was that Balthier had actually perpetrated plans of a similar bloody stupid nature in the past. Gods above, did that make him as much of an idiot as Vaan?

'So?' Vaan grinned, which split his fat bottom lip wide open, 'am I right?'

Balthier almost wished he wasn't quite so fastidious about cleanliness because he suddenly had the burning desire for a nice long lie down. He gave Vaan a very level look (as much as it was possible to do so in the gloom).

'There is no treasure, or underground catacombs, that I am aware of in Eraldo's demesne, Vaan.'

'Oh,' for all of five seconds Vaan looked quite crestfallen. Sadly he did not remain silent and subdued for long, 'But this _is_ some sort of big plan, though, right Balthier?'

Balthier thought for a moment about how to treat this inquiry. His right hand itched to give Vaan a good clout to the back of the head, but he sternly reminded himself that such an action would fly in the face of his newly minted resolution to treat Vaan with at least a modicum of respect.

Damnall, he _knew_ there was a reason he did not make resolutions; they were torture to uphold. He sensed that this one was going to cost him dearly.

Sighing deeply Balthier gave the only answer he could in the face of Vaan's inane confidence.

'Yes Vaan. This is all a fiendishly complex plan,' He drawled blandly. 'I have come all this way, unarmed and without allies, because there is nothing I enjoy more than sitting around in a tiny, dank cell for hours on end.'

'Right,' Vaan beamed at him inherent sarcasm flying blissfully right over his head, 'I knew this was all part of your cunning plan!'

Balthier closed his eyes; it was going to be a very, very long day.

* * *

**702: Captain's Cabin Antarii**

_Balthier met with little resistance when he reached the Antarii's docking place. In fact the complete absence of any of Remus' crew was an ominous portent that all was not well_. _Running up the gangplank to enter the ship Balthier was saved the effort of a protracted search of the airship cabins by the sound of breaking furniture and a woman's howl of pain. _

_Balthier followed the signs of violence to the captain's cabin. _

'Traitorous witch! I'll kill yer, yer ruddy whore!'

_Balthier's momentarily hesitation at the end of the tiny corridor leading the Remus' door probably saved him the pain and inconvenience of having a full grown woman land on him as the door to the cabin burst open, breaking the frame as the lock gave way, and Ruthy bounced over the threshold and careened into the wall in the corridor._

_Balthier blinked as the woman came to an undignified stop at his feet. Both Ruthy's eyes were blacked and her nose broken, blood formed a mask for her savaged features and her head lolled on the stalk of her neck bonelessly. Without conscious thought Balthier dropped down into a crouch beside the woman and pressed two fingers to the pulse point at her throat. _

_A shadow darkened the doorway to the captain's cabin. _'Another traitor! Y'll get yer's too boy!'

_Balthier threw himself backward in a neat backwards roll and the bullet from Remus' Altair rifle chewed a hole in the corridor wall of the Antarii and not Balthier's head. Jumping swiftly to his feet Balthier ducked low and swept forward, towards the incandescently furious Remus, before he could fire again. He well knew that at close quarters a rifle became a liability not an asset in a fight. _

_In two years of regular maltreatment, enforced labour, ridicule and abuse, Balthier had never once fought back against Remus. He had never thought to do so; he had chosen this fate after all. Now however, despite the fact that his opponent was bigger, stronger, and more experienced in the application of violence than Balthier had any desire to ever be, he closed with the sky pirate and grabbed for the rifle. _

'Ugn…..You're making a mistake, Remus.' _Grappling for control of the rifle Balthier's mind raced through the correct stance, movements and processes for disarming a miscreant that had been ingrained through harsh discipline into his hindbrain by the Judges of the Archadian Judiciary. _'I am not……ack……not your enemy.'

_During the year he had spent training to enter the Archadian Judiciary Militia as a reedy fifteen year old with no desire whatsoever to learn the arts of war, Balthier had tried his level best to learn nothing from Judge Magister Bergen's punishing physical training regimen of ice water showers before dawn, five mile runs before breaking fast, twenty laps in a freezing lake after breakfast and before light arms practice and unarmed combat training. In that year alone, despite his best efforts to the contrary, he had learned all the rudiments of war and violence, and many other sins that would never leave him. While he would never be the greatest swordsman, the strongest opponent, or the toughest hand-to-hand combatant, he would also never be the weakest. _

_Remus was about to receive first hand instruction on just how much Balthier had learned from Magister Bergen and his ilk. _

_Realising that he would not be able to wrestle the rifle from Remus through brute force alone (Remus would always be his better in that arena) Balthier abruptly let go of the rifle and while Remus tried to correct his balance Balthier slammed the flat of his palm under Remus' chin and into his throat. _

'Arhck!'

_Remus staggered back and through the threshold of the cabin doorway. Balthier swiftly crowded him further into the cabin with a feinted swing to the chops Remus ducked and a genuine punch to the solar plexus that he did not. Remus doubled up more in surprise than pain and Balthier ripped the gun from his hands, flipped it between his own, and had it aimed at the bigger man's head in less time than it takes to tell of it. _

'Ahem, now as I was saying,' _Balthier sucked in a quick breath of air as Remus straightened up, wiped a hand over his mouth, and glowered at Balthier who kept the gun trained on him. _'I think you may be labouring under a misassumption, Remus. No one has betrayed you.'

_Calmly Balthier swiftly removed one hand from the rifle so that he could unhook the Landis Phoenix from his belt. He threw the ornament negligently onto the counterpane of Remus' bunk where it bounced twice and lay there innocuous as any other mantle ornament. Remus' eyes widened when he saw the Phoenix._

'She said yer'd scarpered wit' the fing.'

_Balthier arched his eyebrows, _'And you _believed_ her?'

_For all of a second Remus had the grace to look chagrin then he glared some more, _'Put the bluidy rifle down yer Archadian pansy.'

_Balthier once again simply looked, pointedly, at Remus, _'I think not. In fact I feel that the atmosphere of this tête-à-tête is greatly improved if I maintain control of the only loaded weapon in play. That way we can all be assured of surviving.'

_Remus sneered but notably did not attempt to take the rifle by force. He sat down on the bunk and grabbed up the Phoenix in one meaty hand. Balthier frowned, he couldn't be sure, and was sure in fact that he was mistaken, but it appeared to him as if the Phoenix's beak had opened on a silent screech of complaint. Rather as if the Phoenix did not appreciate being held by any hand save Balthier's own. Still that was just fanciful nonsense and hardly pertinent to the matters of the present and so Balthier ignored the observation._

'Yeah? An' why should I believe that yer ain't gunna shoot me now that yer got the chance, yer ruddy smooth talkin' sod.'

_Balthier allowed himself the faintest of smiles and relaxed fractionally, _'Because you are not completely stupid. Killing you would only ensure my own demise, at least at present. Whereas offering you loyalty is presently in my best interests, as you well know.'

_Remus' showed off a mouthful of yellowed teeth, large and blunt and vicious like a Lobo's. _'Didn't believe the harridan when she tole me yer'd buggered off wit' the loot. Not yer style; half figgered she's killed yer though an' taken the loot fer hersel'.'

_Remus gestured out toward the corridor where Ruthy remained insensate. Balthier glanced back at her for a moment before returning his attention to the calm and bizarrely reasonable Remus. Balthier studied the man thoughtfully._

'You are aware of the headhunter's looking for me?'

'Aye,' _Remus showed off even more teeth, _'Yer worth a lotta Gil boy. Didn't fink yer ole man would'a put up the Gil fer yer sorry hide.'

_Balthier's smirk was completely devoid of humour, _'I am wanted for treason in Archades; such a slur on my father's good name would be worth any amount of Gil to expunge.'

_And the longer Balthier could continue to hold firm to the belief that that was the only reason his father would expend resources to find him the happier he would be. _

_Remus grunted either in agreement or simply due to indigestion, Balthier could not tell which. The jaundiced single remaining eye the man had turned on Balthier. _'I know Nylous planted yer here t'kill me.'

'I never doubted that you knew,' _Balthier nodded calmly. _'You should also be aware that there is little incentive for me to attempt to speed along the commission of that task. Nylous is no friend of mine and I doubt not that even should I manage to kill you, as all your crew secretly long to do, all I would ultimately achieve is my own untimely death in turn.'

_Remus grinned, all his teeth flashing in the light, _'Aye which is why yer still breathin' boy; no one else, save dat stupid tart out there, is gunna take the risk o' killin' me when yer here t' take the risk fer 'em.' _Another bearing of teeth,_ 'Yer nothin' but a stalking horse boy.'

_Balthier nodded, _'I am aware that is what Nylous had planned.'

'Aye,' _Remus nodded sagely, _'So we make a deal, that right boy? We got each other by the short an' curlies. Yer know yer done fer as soon as yer take yer shot, an' I need yer t'block the shot o' all the rest o' the lollygaggers an' scurvy knaves that smile at m' face while they sharpen the knife behin' m' back.'

_Only for a moment, but long enough to be noted by Balthier, Remus appeared haggard, aged and time worn by the constant spectre of death and betrayal that had become the only certainty of his life; the life of a sky pirate. It would take Balthier many years to think again on that look in Remus' one eye but when he did he would come to feel an odd respect for his former mental and tormentor. Remus was akin to a behemoth in a den of cutthroats and thieves; a great beast led by the nose to his slaughter by those afraid to face him fairly. _

_In that moment however the eighteen year old Balthier could think of only one thing to say in the face of that bone weary fatality he could not yet comprehend. He shrugged indifferently._

'Pirates will be pirates, after all.'

* * *

**707 O.V. A Cell in the Demesne of Eraldo Lumineres**

'Hey Balthier?'

Cracking open one eye Balthier roused himself from a semi-doze, 'Hmm?'

'What's this?' Vaan was standing by the boarded up window, leaning heavily against the wall and panting like a bellows with the effort it took to stay standing, but he was standing all the same. In his hand he held aloft the piece of thread from Balthier's sleeve.

'A piece of twine,' Balthier held out a hand, 'If you are finished with it I'll have it back.'

'What's it do?' Vaan stumbled as he tried to move away from the wall to hand back the string but righted his balance swiftly enough. 'Is it magick?'

Balthier carefully wound the string into a coil and tucked it into one of the pouches on his belt, 'Yes; you've heard of Ribbons haven't you? They ward off the effects of negative magicks like Sap and Poison.'

Vaan nodded and then frowned, 'Is that what that string is? I didn't know Ribbons could cure ailments too?'

Balthier studied Vaan as the youth attentively sat back down on the filthy straw bed resting gangly elbows on knobby knees and palming his chin in his hands. He looked acquisitive and interested. Reminded that this could be referred to as a conversation, and therefore a step in the right direction, Balthier indulged Vaan's curiosity.

'Ordinarily they can't,' he conceded, 'But this particular piece of frippery is also imbued with the distilled essence of various white magicks,' Balthier raised a hand to forestall Vaan's inevitable follow on questions, 'Don't ask me how, magick is not my area of expertise.' He shrugged casually, 'Fran acquired a spool of this thread after our first encounter with Eraldo. She incorporated the thread into our clothing as a matter of due prudence.' Balthier looked at Vaan keenly, 'The thread also works like white magick does upon undead creatures. Had Eraldo attempted to trick me, and you were already nothing more than ambulatory corpse, the thread would have burned you quite severely.'

Vaan shivered, 'So you know what he does?' The blue eyes were angry, an anger that was more disgust than personal injury, 'You know about all the dead things here?'

Balthier smiled thinly, 'Did you not wonder how Eraldo managed to hold fort in Bhujerba right under Ondore's nose? Magick is common enough, but most decent, or at least _breathing_ citizens of Ivalice, still fear the dead and those who can command them.'

Vaan frowned, 'It's not right. I mean I've fought undead fiends before, in Nabudis and the Pharros and places like that, but I've never heard of anyone who could summon the undead.' He paused for a moment's reflection, 'Except the Judge of Wings, but she was just weird anyway.'

Balthier's smile flickered again, 'Quite so. In any regard there is more in this Ivalice than can be reckoned by your philosophy Vaan. Eraldo is a lover of all things necrotic; it is a perversion that has granted him a reputation few wish to challenge.'

'Except you,' Vaan said with a certain odd satisfaction in his tone. Balthier arched an eyebrow quizzically.

'Hardly; I would be happy to let sleeping fiends lie had it not been that Eraldo's ambitions would appear to conflict with my own desire to remain extant.'

'Huh?'

Balthier sighed, 'If I don't persuade him otherwise he will kill me, or worse, therefore I am here, in all respects a prisoner, hoping to find means to barter for both our survival.'

'Oh.' Vaan frowned, 'So we're going to kill him?'

Balthier rubbed an aching spot over his brow. Conversing with Vaan was, perhaps, less traumatic than being turned into a shambolic, servile corpse, but not by much.

'Vaan, contrary to popular opinion killing ones foes is not always the best way to resolve conflict.' Balthier paused for a moment, he winced, 'Gods know he is acquainted enough with the intricacies of death and un-death that I'm not sure the usual means of shuffling a man off this mortal coil would even work.'

'Huh?' Vaan blinked at him stupidly.

Balthier closed his eyes despairing, 'I do not believe that Eraldo can be killed.' He frowned, 'Why must I repeat myself?'

'Umm?' It was hard to tell if Vaan was attempting to answer or just making unintelligible sounds for the sake of it. Balthier wondered if it would be possible to conclusively tell an un-dead Vaan from a live one? Certainly it would be difficult through conversation alone.

Balthier counted to ten slowly in his head before soldiering on, 'Vaan, while we languish here in this sordid dump may I ask you a question?'

Vaan blinked, 'Sure.'

Balthier nodded, 'What do you think you are doing?'

Vaan frowned, 'Huh?' A look of exquisite confusion crossed his features, 'What; when?'

Balthier flapped his hand languidly to encompass Vaan in his physical and meta-physical entirety, 'Your life Vaan. You realise, don't you, that what you are is not a sky pirate, hmm? Sky pirates pilfer, pillage, and despoil ancient wonders and hidden treasures. It is something of an occupational necessity.'

Balthier waited to make sure Vaan was keeping pace with the conversation so far before continuing patiently.

'Sky pirates do not, generally, befriend the inhabitants of strange floating isles and attempt to save Ivalice and said winged strangers from peril and corruption. It is simply not done.'

Vaan seemed to be struggling with this revelation, 'The good pirates do.'

Balthier sighed, 'Vaan there are no "good" pirates. The notion is incompatible with the reality of pirates. Piracy is not a nice vocation; thievery and smuggling are not conducive with moral rectitude.'

'Umm, but, I mean you're a pirate and you don't pilfer, pillage, or steal all that much. Or at least when you do you're polite about it. You've helped people too.'

Balthier tugged at his cuffs and wondered just how thick headed Vaan could be. Under other circumstances it might even be a sign of character; right now it was merely an annoyance.

'Vaan for the love of the gods, I am not a yardstick for moral comparison.' He snapped, 'My life and my exploits are not your own. I asked _you_ what _you_ thought you were doing – and what it is _you_ hope to achieve?'

Vaan was quiet for a moment and when he spoke there was an uncharacteristic sullenness to his tone, or perhaps a note of suspicion, 'Why do you care?'

Taken aback by both the tone of the question and the question itself Balthier took a moment to consider his answer. When he finally did answer it was with a question of his own.

'Vaan why do you suppose I allowed you to keep the Strahl for a year after Bahamut's fall?'

Vaan had a ready answer for this question suggesting he had at least pondered on it privately himself at some point. 'Because you and Fran were injured and you knew that you'd always be able to get her back from me and Penelo.'

Balthier considered this surprisingly astute reply, 'Granted that was a factor, but have you not wondered why I taught you to fly her?'

'Because I was the only one there that made sense and you needed to teach someone in the party in case something happened to you or Fran. I mean Ashe wasn't going to waste time learning to fly when she'd never need to, and neither would Basch. So it had to be me or Penelo and I wanted to learn more than she did.'

'You know Vaan,' Balthier said thoughtfully, 'You are not nearly as foolish as you look, sound, or appear to be through everyday observation.'

'Umm, thanks.' Vaan grinned, 'A lot of people tell me that.'

'Hmm I can imagine, but you are also only half right in your assertions.' He looked keenly at Vaan, 'Aside from a purely pragmatic rationale, why did I give you wings?'

Vaan met his eyes for a long time and held his gaze. After a moment something like a smile touched his bruised face, 'To see what I'd do with them.' He said turning a question into a statement at the last minute.

Balthier nodded obscurely pleased with how well the conversation was now progressing.

'Precisely.' He agreed, 'I am something of a,' Balthier considered his words carefully as he realised that he spent little time trying to explain or define his own lifestyle, 'a _wanderer _by nature Vaan. I have eschewed and out right rejected the edicts and strictures of any profession, creed, or calling offered or enforced upon me. Frankly I do not anticipate living to see my thirtieth year, and while I do continue to draw breath I live to indulge myself in the moment.'

Balthier paused and saw that Vaan was watching him intently, 'I am good at what I do Vaan. I will brook no pale imitators, and had I thought for a moment that you would become anything like me, I would never have let you near my Strahl's controls.'

Balthier let this statement permeate the deep morass of Vaan's mind before continuing almost gently. 'So tell me, you have the wings, what will you do with them?'

Vaan dropped his eyes, 'I don't want to tell you; you'll laugh.'

'I laugh at you often,' Balthier pointed out reasonably, 'that has never stopped you from offering your thoughts in the past.'

Vaan flicked his eyes up and then swiftly away, 'I'm not ready to tell you.'

Balthier arched a brow, 'Ah, but you _do_ have a plan, hmm?'

Again Vaan's eyes flicked up and away as nervous as a whipped dog; Balthier tapped his fingers against the dirty stone floor of the cell. It was encouraging to know that something like ambition lurked under Vaan's placid surface.

'Unless I miss my guess,' Balthier offered musingly, 'I suspect that this aspiration of yours will entail using an airship for altruistic endeavours? Rescuing lost travellers out in Yensa Sandsea, perhaps? Or escorting pacifist pilgrims up the slopes of Bur-Omisace, hmm?'

Vaan's head jerked up and his eyes grew saucer wide, 'How'd you know about….'

Balthier smirked at him stroking his fingers over his damaged cuffs, 'Vaan did you really think that news would not reach me that you were single-handedly trying to undo decades of hard toil by genuinely murderous, amoral sky pirates to thoroughly blacken our reputation, with your good works and kind deeds?' he asked with dry amusement.

'Ur….' Vaan looked a trifle uncomfortable.

Balthier arched one eyebrow, 'Do you have any idea how many aforementioned bloodthirsty pirates I've had to bribe to keep you and your pig-tailed paramour alive since the fiasco with the Aygle?'

Vaan stared at him, 'Huh?'

Balthier smiled and reclined back a little on one arm, tapping the fingers of his other hand against his raised knee, 'Vaan I am an iconoclast and you're exploits are an amusing diversion, but I will tell you this now: you do not have a future in sky piracy. You are far too bloody noble.'

* * *

**702: Captain's Cabin Antarii**

'Yer want me t'do what?'

_Remus peered at Balthier intently with his one eye, _'Ruddy hell yer really are a mad un.'

_Balthier frowned offended; this was not the response he had hoped for when he made his proposal to Remus. He frowned down at the unconscious and shackled Ruthy chained to a chain in Remus' cabin. Balthier had advocated simply banish her and her crew from Chantilier's Rest with a stern rebuke and hoping she was clever enough to steer well clear of Remus from then on. Remus, perhaps showing more insight, had laughed this suggestion away and decided that Ruthy needed to be taught a lesson in loyalty; a painful one._

'There is nothing mad about it.' _Balthier pointed out a little sharply, _'The sum of Gil offered for my capture is sizable. I have a plan to deal with the headhunters but doubt that they will react with anything other than suspicion should I attempt to hunt them down myself. Therefore it makes perfect sense that you be the vector with which I gain access to the hunters.'

_Remus stared at him, lips moving dazedly as he tried to follow Balthier's verbose reasoning and parse out exactly what he meant. He shook his large shaggy head in complete confusion, _'It makes perfect sense fer yer to ask me t'tie yer up and dump yer at the feet o' these hunters, does it? Is that the sort of reasonin' Archades teaches its toffs now-a-days?'

_Balthier gave him a baleful look, he still held the rifle although it was now loose in his hands and not aimed. Still having the weapon did give Balthier a certain leverage in this conversation that allowed him the confidence to glower at the other man._

'I wouldn't know,' _he snapped, _'However I feel I should re-iterate to you that in handing me over you, yourself, become eligible to receive the bounty in full. The bounty is the same sum as the Gil offered for the Phoenix; in one swoop you make double your fee.'

_Remus laughed out loud, a brassy baying sound like a lobo's howl. His one eye glimmered with savage amusement, '_Oh aye, I know well how getting' rid of yer will help me, boyo, what I don't figger is how you fink this will help you.'

'Does it matter?' _Balthier asked coolly._

_Remus smirked, _'To me getting' me Gil, no. I got the Phoenix for the handover now so I don't need yer alive particularly. Still I know yer, yer ruddy slimy serpent. Yer up t'somefing an' I want t'know that it ain't gunna be me that cops it fer yer schemes.'

_Balthier sighed thoroughly irritated, _'We have been over this.'

'Aye, yer said it ain't in yer int'res to kill me yet, but yer never said yer weren't fixin' t'do it later.' _Remus smiled wolfishly._

_Balthier tried to keep his disconcerted look from his face and bearing; he hadn't expected Remus to notice that. He would have to tread carefully from here on in. Balthier chose his words with deliberation._

'I have no intent on killing you now or in the near future; my freedom is my goal and that freedom, for the moment is predicated on your survival. That is nothing less than the truth.'

_Remus just looked at him through that one stormy eye. _'Aye,' _he said quietly staring down the adolescent before him until Balthier eventually dropped his gaze in submission both calculated and accidental. _

'A'ight,' _Remus growled, _'We'll play this game yer way fer now, but mark m' words boy: I'm watching yer.'

_Balthier lifted his head but could not quench the flare of triumph in his eyes before Remus noted it._

'You will not regret this, Remus.' _He told the other man with no little satisfaction._

_Remus said nothing whatsoever in answer as the young buck swaggered away to make his preparations for a false betrayal. Nevertheless the old sky-hound knew that one way or the other, somewhere down the line, he had signed his own death warrant by agreeing to this ploy. He knew that he should shoot the bloody Archadian brat in the back or cut him into cullops to feed the fishes. He didn't though and he knew he wouldn't_

_Sky pirates always protected their apprentices after all; even if it proved to be the death of them. There would be no shame in dying at the hands of a better pirate, Remus himself had killed his own mentor when he no longer needed him, and thus the cycle of pirate and apprentice would be fulfilled with his own death. _

_Pirates would be pirates, after all, and this was the way of piracy. Remus took heart in the brutal fact that one day, Balthier would have an apprentice of his own……..and then the bloody Archadian bastard would get what he so richly deserved. _

* * *

_A/N: Next chapter enter Eraldo and the return of Fran!!!!_


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two: 702 O.V. Chantilier's Rest**

_Remus had gone to find the Filpots and arrange the exchange, Balthier for the Gil reward, this left Balthier himself alone with the battered Ruthy inside Remus cabin. All was still and silent except for the whirl of snarled thoughts inside Balthier's mind. Then there was the whisper of a footstep treading just a little too heavily upon the grated floor of the corridor and a flicker of shadow beyond the cabin door. _

'I know you are there Aeneas,' _Balthier sat down a little heavily upon the edge of the bed Ruthy was tied to. He didn't bother to look up at the doorway where the other young man loitered. _

'I suppose you feel I have betrayed Ruthy, or Nylous, or perhaps _you_, hmm?' _Balthier rubbed a hand over his face; scratching at his hair line. The gesture belying his youth and nervousness, _'But you see, the Filpots are much more of a threat, and conversely an opportunity, than you might realise.'

_Staring fixedly at the blank wall of the Antarii's cabin Balthier licked his dry and parched lips. His stomach was a shrunken, twisted lump deflated and stuck to his spine. His head spun and his eyes ached with exhaustion; he felt vaguely sick as he spoke. _

_Aeneas stepped into the cabin his expression uncharacteristically grave and dull, _'Ain't nothing to do with me, mate. We've all got to pick a side, Remus or Ruthy, one or the other.' _Aeneas shrugged,_ 'I appreciate that you stopped the bastard from killing her though. She might be a right harridan but I owe her.' _He nodded towards Ruthy's battered form._

_Balthier looked up in surprise at Aeneas' deliberately neutral words. For a long moment the two young men just stared at each other. Balthier broke the eye contact first. _'I don't want her dead either.'

'Right, because then you can't play her and Remus off one another.' _Aeneas' green eyes were hard and dead, dulled by an anger that boroughed down deep below the placid surface of his countenance. Balthier felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. He thought before he spoke suddenly on edge. _

'I don't have the luxury of choosing a side and being content as a second fiddle, Aeneas. I am forced to play both ends against the middle to survive, whether I will it or no.'

_Balthier rose from the edge of the bed, abruptly he did not feel comfortable seated while Aeneas stood. In fact he was not quite comfortable in Aeneas' company at all. There was something wrong with his friend, something that went beyond the abuse he had suffered at Balthier's hands earlier this very eve. Balthier just wasn't sure what it was._

_Aeneas shrugged again, in response to Balthier's words. He moved forward to check Ruthy's health, Ruthy who was his captain in more ways than the merely hierarchical sense; he began untying her and Balthier moved to help him. It would be best if Ruthy was safely gone before Remus returned after all and Balthier had meant what he said, he did not want Ruthy dead. Gods knew he did not want Remus dead, if truth be known; it was simply a matter of being more enamoured of his own continued existence than either of theirs, which motivated his schemes._

_As the two youths liberated Ruthy from her bindings Balthier watched Aeneas warily. It was possible the two blows to the head he had landed to his friend in as many days might have left a dent in their camaraderie but he did not think that was the only reason for the strange air between them. He frowned._

'You are not beholden, Aeneas.' _He began cautiously, trying to tease out the rationale for the repressed animosity he could feel emanating from Aeneas._ 'You already know how to steal, swindle, and pillage as well as any pirate in the crew, and your flying is second only to Remus himself.'

_A truth that had always stuck in Balthier's craw, he who had sold himself into slavery to gain his wings and was still grounded; yet it _was_ true and Balthier did not know what held Aeneas here. Surely Aeneas knew that he did not need to give his fealty to Ruthy or any pirate? If Balthier could fly as Aeneas could he would not stop until he had flown clean off the map. _

'Not beholden you say?'

_A strange bitter smile spread across Aeneas' charming features and he laughed, shortly and without humour, _'Mate you just don't understand, do you?' _Hard green eyes burned into Balthier with shocking vehemence, _'I'm not like you, Balthier. I'm not bloody Cidolfus Bunansa's son, I'm not a prodigal genius, I can't fix an engineer like you can, I can't talk my way out of death's embrace like you can. I'm just a ruddy pirate.'

_Balthier blinked and took an involuntary step back from the scalding heat of Aeneas sudden ire. _'What are you talking about?' _He asked uncomprehending. _'What does any of that have to do with anything?'

_Aeneas' lip curled and he ignored Ruthy in favour of advancing on Balthier, _'Oh that's rich mate,' _He laughed harshly, _'You're unbelievable, you know that? Bloody _Balthier_, so bloody perfect at everything and you don't even realise it.'

_Aeneas' hands curled into fists and his face pinched into a flushed mask of rage. Balthier could only stare at him. He heard Aeneas' words but could not make sense of them. _'Perfect; perfect at what? Aeneas you are making no sense.'

_Aeneas laughed again, a vicious bark of laughter and suddenly his arms shot out and he shoved Balthier in the chest causing him to stumble backwards into the wall of the cabin._

'Not making sense, am I?' Well, that's to be expected, right? I mean I'm not a bloody genius like some people. I'm just bloody nobody.'

_Before Balthier could react Aeneas' fist swung and connected with Balthier's jaw. Balthier hit the cabin floor, his bottom lip split open on his teeth and his jaw throbbing with pain. Startled more than anything else he looked up at Aeneas in total confusion._

'You've got no idea how hard it is being around you mate. How hard it is to see you being so bloody, effortlessly, ruddy _perfect_ all the sodding time.' _Aeneas' eyes were bright with something other than anger, something almost like distress. Roughly he hauled a stunned Balthier to his feet, knocking him back into the wall and then, bizarrely, brushing down his disordered collar for him. Balthier completely at sea could not formulate a reply before Aeneas let loose another vitriolic torrent of words._

'You should be kissing my bloody boots and asking me to help you, mate.' _Aeneas told him, fists tangling in the shirt front he had just been smoothing,_ 'You should be lower than Chocobo dung in the crew, but you ain't, oh no, not _you, _not bloody perfect _Balthier_. You've got Ruthy, Remus, even the ruddy pirate king wrapped around your bleeding fingers.'

_Balthier thought about his own life, trying to equate his personal experiences with Aeneas' impressions. He found it a difficult fit. He thought about sleeping in a hammock strung over the engines of the Antarii. He thought about the heat and grinding noise he had learned to live with. He thought of Remus' constant aggression and the ever present threat of the man's violence. He thought about Ruthy and her dangerous obsession with his father and, by extension, Balthier himself. He thought about the blood soaked deal he had made with Nylous. He thought about the execution for treason that hung over his head should he ever think to return to Archades. He thought about the father whose madness had nearly driven him to despair. He thought about the scars all over his back from the torture he had endured at the pirate king's hands before making his fated deal. He thought about the lies, deceptions, schemes and gut gnawing anxiety that had become the bread and butter of his life for the last two years. _

_He thought about all this and struggled to see how Aeneas could possibly be _envious _of the life he was barely surviving when Aeneas' own seemed infinitely preferable to Balthier himself. _

_Balthier blinked, _'I…..' _Aeneas used the grip he had on Balthier's shirt to slam him painfully into the cabin wall, silencing him._

'Shut it mate,' _He snarled into Balthier's face, _'I mean it; say anything and I'll pound your face right into the wall.'

_Balthier closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth. His brain had stalled and he could not think to react to this incredible display from Aeneas. How could he have not realised just how much Aeneas hated him? A strange fission of dismay settled over Balthier; dismay and something like humiliation. A dull heat pulsed in his cheeks to match the throb from his split lip. He stared at Aeneas and felt not anger but a strange twist of the innards; regret, hurt, foolishness. This was the reason he had always distained friendship. This was the reason Ffamran Bunansa had never been popular with his school chums. This was the reason his early days in the Akademy had been filled with the jeers of his peers, the pokes and prods, the name-calling and the after bell beatings. He should have known that Aeneas would be the same. He should not have bothered to be guilty for lying and deceiving Aeneas, for hitting him. Gods damn it; he should have _hit him harder_. _

'You just couldn't help yourself, could you?' _Aeneas continued too wrapped up in his own emotions to notice the hard, implacable shield that had snapped over behind Balthier's dark eyes. _'I mean, I could cope with you being better than me at heists, at engineering, at almost everything. I could accept that you are smarter than me. I could accept that the girls I talked to only wanted to get close to _you_.' _Aeneas' hands twisted tighter into the folds of his shirt, suggesting that his stated acceptance was not all that complete after all, _'But then you had to go and _boff_ Ruthy, boff _my_ Captain, didn't you? You, who wouldn't even look at the port girls, oh no, too good for them, but you'll do _her_, won't you?'

_Had Balthier been made of less staunch stuff his jaw may well have unhinged and dropped to the floor in response to this latest tirade. A multitude of rebuttals surged up his throat but died on his tongue. Bloody blue blazes; he was in love with Ruthy. Aeneas was in love with _Ruthy. _The realisation made Balthier's brain hurt._ _The fact that he had never, ever wanted to bed Ruthy, the fact that Aeneas was the one who had handed Balthier over to Ruthy in the first place by gaining her aid to rescue him from the Filpots paled into insignificance in the face of Aeneas grieving, rabid jealousy. _

_Aeneas shook him again, _'Well say something you ruddy jammy bastard.'

_Something hard, yet brittle, closed around Balthier's mind and thoughts. A smirk sliced into place even as his bottom lip continued to sting. He raised his own hands to pry Aeneas off him. _

'So sorry,' _Balthier purred venomously shoving Aeneas away from him, _'I was not aware you were permitting speech from me.' _The smirk left his face, _'Though I am sure I have no idea what you wanted to hear from me, for I have little to say in response to such utterly pathetic twaddle.'

_Staring at Aeneas now Balthier was forcibly reminded of something his father had told to the little boy he used to be, when that little boy had come home from Akademy, his lovely uniform torn and soiled by the bully-boys that had knocked him face first into the mud and dust. He remembered how his father had found him, curled up inside his closet, skinned knees drawn up to his chin and a collection of shiny brass buttons torn from his jacket clutched in his shaking hands. _

_He remembered how the little boy he had been had been so completely unable to understand why the other children were so vicious. Yes Ffamran always managed the top marks in class tests, yes he was always impeccably groomed and coiffed (he had been raised to take care of his appearance like a good Gentry should), yes he was quiet and polite to the tutors (his nanny Penpo had always told him that good manners were worth more than all the Gil in Ivalice) but why did that make him a target for the other children's hate? What had he ever done to them?_

You are better than they, Ffamran, and the inferior always despise their superiors, _his father had told the trembling child Balthier had once been as he pulled him from the closet and took the tarnished brass buttons from his small hands. _You were born to be one of the greatest in the Empire. Those children are merely jealous of you and all you are.

_The child Ffamran had considered his father's words seriously, as he always did. He had looked from the brass buttons now in his father's hands to his own skinned knees and he had thought about the way that the tutors were always so very full of praise for him and so very quick to chastise the other children, even those who were, in Ffamran's opinion, almost as bright and able as he was. That did not seem in any way fair, despite his father's words. _

Why am I superior, father? _Ffamran had asked, brow scrunched in distress,_ Surely we children are all the same? I am very good at sums but my penmanship is poor, I know it to be so, yet the other day, in calligraphy class, I was awarded the highest merit when I was the least deserving of it.

_His father had laughed. _Modesty from a Bunansa, your mother, rest her soul, would never have believed it possible, _his father had sobered then and settled seated on the edge of his son's bed. Depositing the shiny buttons on the bedspread he had placed his large hands upon his son's narrow shoulders and looked him firmly in the eyes. _

Now listen to me son, if you should disregard all else I say, mark these words. Humes are selfish and self-serving beasts. Those that are bright, able, strong and capable are always hounded and at the mercy of those who are not. The undeserving poor, the useless, feckless and the lazy; they are multitude and we gifted are few. They will drag you down if they can and ne'er thank you for your efforts should you give them compassion.

_The child Ffamran had reacted in alarm to these words. He thought again of the children in his Akademy classes, surely his father did not mean them? Surely he could not mean that almost everyone Ffamran was to meet in his life would be so base and unpleasant? It occurred to Ffamran even then that if his father's assessment was accurate then his life was likely to be a very lonely one. Surely is father did not mean what he thought he meant. _

But father, Nanny Penpo said that I should make friends with…._he had quavered hesitantly for he did not like to contradict his adored father. _

Ffamran, my son, listen to me, _His father had squeezed his shoulders a little, _Nanny Penpo is a great aid to this family, but she is but a Moogle and by nature inferior to we humes. Friendship is nothing more than a tool for advancement son. A Bunansa does not make friends, but instead chooses among others of his status those with whom to make an alliance of greatest reward.

_Ffamran was a child who never cried but his bottom lip had trembled and his small hands had closed into fists at his father's words, _but father, what if I want to have friends and play with the other children? What if I do not want to be superior?

_Again his father had laughed heartily but his eyes behind his half-moon spectacles had remained firm and cool, unmoved by his son's plight. _Want has nothing to do with it, my boy. You are a Bunansa, you will always be a Bunansa, one of the highest born of the Empire, and because of that there will always be those lesser born fools who will hate you for it.

_Ffamran might have said something else in response to his father's words but his father turned his face slightly away from his son; expression abstracted and jaw hard. His next words were quiet, textured with a quality of self-reflection that the child Ffamran could not understand, but was in fact his father's own bitter experience. _You will always be too clever, son, too sure of yourself. Your achievements will always be seen as insults to those who cannot do as you do. In your life, Ffamran, there will be those who want something from you, to use your talents for their own ends, and then there will be those who will try to destroy you with their jealousy.

_Ffamran had jolted with dismay and almost pulled free of his father's hands, _But why? Why would they do such things? What have I done to them?

_Cidolfus Bunansa had turned back then to look his small son in the eyes once again. _Nothing: that is why you must never allow the lesser folk the advantage of you. Use those inferior fools to your own advantage first, Ffamran. Never apologise for your superiority and do not waste your time on pity for those who are lesser than you – for believe me, they will drag you down if they can.

_The child Ffamran had stared into his beloved father's eyes, the warm weight of his father's hands on his shoulders a comfort to him. He had nodded his head solemnly. _Very well father. I will remember your words. _He had said with resolution. Despite the stinging of his grazed knees, despite the tarnished buttons torn from his jacket and the road dust coating his white shirt, Ffamran had straightened his spine and tilted up his chin proudly, _I am a Bunansa; I do not need friends. I do not need anyone. I shall never let anyone get the better of me for I shall have the better of them first.

_Little Ffamran had made that promise and evermore had held to it even after he had abandoned all else of his life and heritage. Still the innocent child he once was had been right about one thing. Balthier's life was a very lonely one indeed. _

'Twaddle?' _Aeneas' outraged exclamation forced Balthier out of his memories. _'You're calling me pathetic?'

_Balthier swept a hand down his shirt, trying to re-order it and brush out the creases from Aeneas' fists. He cast a contemptuous look Aeneas' way, lip curling in something too savage to be called a smirk but too cold to be a snarl, _'Yes, I am calling you pathetic.'

_Aeneas' face twisted, scarlet rage painting his cheeks his fists flew but Balthier deftly side-stepped._

'Quite pathetic, indeed.' _He drawled as Aeneas wheeled around again, _'Still I suppose I am partly to blame.' _Aeneas' fist flew at his face and Balthier caught it and used Aeneas' arrested momentum to drag him closer before kneeing him in the groin. Aeneas' mouth opened on a silent exclamation of pain before he crumpled to his knees. Balthier let his arm go and stepped back with a contemptuous sneer. _

_He stared down at Aeneas, '_My father warned me of people like you. The inferior, the weak and the undeserving,' _a nasty smile etched across Balthier's lips, '_Of course I have been in such an ardour to rebel against the old man that I disregarded his advice.' _Balthier dropped down into a crouch beside Aeneas, _'To think that I almost condescended to call you friend. That once upon a time I almost, _almost_, believed you could be trusted.'

_Aeneas stared up at him, eyes bright with pain and anguish, _'You never trusted me. You were just using me, like you use everyone.'

_A quiver of doubt and hurt thrummed through Balthier at Aeneas' words. He thought about Aeneas' camaraderie, his jocular company, his unwanted but well meant advice. Balthier also thought about how he had treated Aeneas in response, with barely contained and impatient contempt motivated mostly by a deep sense of panic. He was used to being mistrusted or disliked and Aeneas' show of seeming friendship had always unnerved him. Of course as it happened he'd been right to treat Aeneas in such a way. Aeneas was in cahoots with Ruthy and using Balthier just as much as Balthier had allegedly used him. _

_The quiver of guilt and doubt in his stomach disappeared and Balthier felt the muscles of his face react in a cold, empty smirk._

'Hmm, yes, and what a good thing too; after all, had I been sincere in my friendship you would have used me ill indeed, wouldn't you, Aeneas?'

_Aeneas could find no suitable retort, save: '_Bastard_.' _

_Something dark and vindictive seeped up from the lonely, tired, miserable well of Balthier's soul as he met Aeneas' angry eyes. He smiled as cold and bright as a stiletto under moonlight, _'No, alas, I have a father still.'

_He rose to his feet, brushing off his trousers though the floor of the cabin was clean. He turned his back on Aeneas and walked over to the bed where Ruthy lay, all but forgotten. Turning to throw a vicious, laconic smile over his shoulder at Aeneas he dropped languidly down across the bed beside Ruthy's prone form and gently brushed the dark, grey streaked, coarse hair from her face. _

_Aeneas' face twisted with impudent rage to see the casual presumption of Balthier's touch upon a woman he was quite unhealthily besotted with. Balthier, his childhood promise to take advantage before others could take advantage of him, loud in his ears kept his eyes on Aeneas as he leaned over Ruthy, _'Hmm, still unconscious I see.' _He arched an eyebrow thoughtfully, _'Perhaps a kiss will wake our fair captain, hmm?'

_Without waiting for Aeneas to make response Balthier leaned over Ruthy and whispered in her ear, _'Come now, dear madam, I have a proposition for you. One I think you will find very interesting.'

_He kissed the side of Ruthy's neck and smiled deep down inside. So Aeneas was jealous was he? Aeneas thought he had a right to resent Balthier, did he? Well, Balthier chuckled, he would make damnedly sure that the other man had something to resent soon enough. _

_Balthier continued to purr sweetly to Ruthy as she disjointedly awoke, in painful increments. As he stroked the older woman's hair he kept his gaze rooted to Aeneas; he drank in the pain and impudent jealousy he saw in those green eyes. _

'You cold hearted bastard,' _Aeneas whispered hoarsely. Balthier continued to stroke the hair back from the moaning, semi-conscious Ruthy's brow. He inclined his head in an almost regal, nonchalant bow to Aeneas accepting his anguish as his dues._

_That would teach him. That would teach Aeneas to cross him. His father had been right all along; Ivalice was full of people trying to drag him down. He would show them though. He'd show them all; all the inferior, little people who kept him down. _

_He was Balthier; he didn't need anyone – and he _certainly_ didn't need friends. _

* * *

**707 O.V. Demesne of Eraldo Lumineres**

The guards came in the dead of night. Balthier who had been struggling with strange and evasive dreams filled with whispered recriminations and a vague, disembodied sense of disappointment, had heard their heavy footed approach. He had woken a snoring Vaan swiftly and the pair had been standing ready when the cell doors opened.

Now they were marched through the dilapidated Bhujerban palace hands bound and halberd points pressed into delicate flesh. A thick, midnight humidity hung in the air and the rich, stomach roiling odour of copper blood and fertile black soil clung to the back of Balthier's parched throat. Almost unconsciously Balthier's ramrod straight spine straightened all the more and his chin tilted defiantly upward. His heart beat picked up; the pitter-patter growing erratic. There was not much that truly frightened Balthier and it was not correct to say that Eraldo scared him precisely. Instead what made the breath catch in his chest was the thought of what Eraldo Lumineres represented.

Not death per se, for death was a simple inevitability, no more inherently terrifying or daunting than any other physiologic imperative. No, death was eminently conquerable. That was the problem. If all things in life and death were mutable, corruptible, and ripe to be harnessed to the whims of man, then what respite was left for the poor common sod? What did it say of this life if even death was no sure escape from injustice and pain?

Balthier had spent his adult life in opposition to something; everything he was had sprung from a rejection of his father and his father's beloved Empire. If there was an establishment to be rebelled against, it was a fair bet that Balthier would be heading up that rebellion. If there was a social convention that needed to be defied then Balthier would either do so or support those who did so. He called himself a nihilist; a man beyond creed and honour, but it was not true. Balthier knew the rights and the wrongs of life and in his own convoluted way he clung to his honour with the same tenacity with which men like Basch Fon Ronsenberg clung to duty.

Eraldo Lumineres was anathema to everything Balthier believed was just and right. To kill one's enemies was a personal moral choice; Balthier would not presume to judge a man for murder when his own hands were far from clean. However taking the life of one's enemies should be the final act. To steal an enemy's eternal rest from him, and control him from beyond the grave, was reprehensible. Death should be release. It should be an end. Yet for those poor sots unfortunate enough to be the enemies of Eraldo Lumineres dying was only the beginning of their agony.

In silence he and Vaan were herded forward until they reached a large set of double doors, siege doors, made of inches thick dark grained wood and studded with metal and brass. One of the silent guards used the end of his halberd to rap upon those heavy wood doors. From beyond Balthier could hear the wooden cross brace being removed and the great doors dragged open with excruciating slowness.

'Whoa,' Vaan sucked in a sharp breath as incrementally the room beyond the doors was revealed to them. Balthier pursed his lips. He had seen Eraldo's audience chamber before but he had to concede the sight was worth noting again. Without a word one of the guards shoved him in the back with the blunt end of a halberd forcing Balthier over the threshold into the room. As he stepped forward his feet made an unpleasant crunching sound upon the floor.

A floor which was made of a cross-hatched lattice work of arm and leg bones, bleached and aged until those bones were a yellowish hue like milk and honey. The floor was uneven rising in tiny peaks where the knobby ends of the bones had been lashed together, before sliding away into downward arched troughs as the lengths of bones stretched out to the next peak.

'Balthier?' Vaan's voice was sharp. Whatever he knew of Eraldo it was clean that he had not previously been in the audience chamber. Balthier felt a moment of trepidation; he should have thought to warn the boy. This was not a sight to walk into unprepared.

'I know Vaan,' he murmured barely moving his lips and keeping his eyes dead ahead, 'Keep you eyes straight forward and whatever you do, don't trip.'

It was good advice but, as with most advice, damnedly hard to follow. Skeletons, hume and other, dangled, complete and whole, from the arched and vaulted ceiling. The wide square columns holding up the chamber roof were wreathed in skulls, some clothed in peeling gold leaf, others almost black with age and cracked nigh on to dust. The winking spark of ivory white skeletal smiles caught in the light from the tallow wax candles burning from chandeliers hanging from thick chains from the ceiling. Thick red wax dripped down from those chandeliers like trails of congealed blood and the meaty scent of the tallow thickened in the nostrils as the two men walked forward.

Upon a three tiered dais at the end of the room sat a throne of bones. The back of the chair and the seat made from the rib bones and pelvis of some massive beast. Skeletal claws created an interesting motif for the chair legs and chair arms. A spray of bone spikes rose like a fan behind the back of the throne sporting a collection of hume heads, some skeletal, and some with greyish and pulpy flesh still adhering to slack faces. The entire edifice was framed and contained under a canopy of state that rose above the throne. A moth eaten dark velvet tapestry depicting nightmarish scenes from a madman's dreams, was supported by lengths of bones lashed together and polished to a pearly white gleam.

Underneath that tapestry, slumped in the cradle of that ivory throne sat Eraldo Lumineres. As if by some unspoken signal both Balthier and Vaan came to an abrupt halt as they stared up at the man upon his macabre throne.

Dressed only in a golden loin cloth Eraldo's ebony hued flesh contained highlights of bluish-grey. His long boned feet were bare, toe nails long as talons and gnarled. His hands, which curled rigor mortis like around the ends of the chair arms, were similarly bony and twisted. Ostentatiously glittering gold and jewel encrusted rings covered his knuckles seeming to weigh down his fingers. Eraldo's face, which might, purely for the perfect symmetry of his features, be deemed beautiful, was rendered hideous by the corpse-like slackness of his countenance. Dark eyes, sunken and listless, sat in the deep craters of his skull under a heavy gold circlet that rode atop his brow. About his bare and emaciated hollow chest heavy torques of almost offensively brilliant gold trailed like shackles, only drawing attention to the prominence of his ribs through that black and gleaming skin.

Balthier took in a quick breath through his nose and forced the tension from his limbs. Rolling his shoulders he continued forward; the hair standing up on the backs of his arms and the nape of his neck. As he strode towards the throne those last few feet, Vaan skipping along beside him like a nervous lobo pup, there was a shiver of dark magick, cold as ice water down the spine, and from the ground the dead rose.

Fran had once tried to explain to him how necromantic summoning worked but Balthier, who did not enjoy over long discussions of death or magick and most certainly did not enjoy conversations that involved both together, had not listened over much to her explanation. Therefore he could not describe how it was that skeleton warriors clothed in rusted chain mail armour and tattered cloth popped up from the floor of bones in a line either side of Balthier and Vaan as they walked forward. Still despite the fact that he could not explain the mechanics of the action he could not deny it made a powerful statement for any visitors to witness.

Certainly it affected Vaan, who bit out a profanity that was native only to Dalmasca (Balthier had almost laughed himself sick the first time he had heard her noble majesty Ashelia loudly reciting said profanity for the first time while traipsing through the Sochen Cave palace). Nevertheless Vaan was not easily frightened and within moments followed Balthier's example and ignored the undead soldiers completely.

'Greetings Eraldo,' Balthier stopped at the foot of the bottom of the three steps leading up to the dais. He contrived to smirk up at his host. Slowly and stiffly Eraldo moved. First his sunken, yellowed eyes turned in his sockets to fix Balthier with a fish-eyed look. Then his neck turned taking his long face with it. After a moment Eraldo's jaws unlevered, clanking open like a faulty draw-bridge.

'Balthier,' Air released from a bellows sounded somewhat like Eraldo's voice. His sunken chest rose to fill with the air he needed for vocalisation and the release of said air had a mechanical quality that did not seem to have ever been hume. His breath whistled suggesting air was escaping from some other orifice than just his mouth. Dry pieces of dead flesh flaked away from the long column of Eraldo's neck as Balthier watched. For just a moment Balthier was fiercely pleased he had nothing left in his empty stomach to void.

'Hmm, yes,' Balthier gathered himself and spoke bluffly in hale and hearty tones, 'As you can see,' he gestured first to himself and then to Vaan, 'I have delivered myself unto you as required. So now may I presume that you will be letting Vaan go?'

The bony fingers of Eraldo's right hand moved, long ragged nails clicking against the finger bones arrayed in a pattern at the end of the chair arm. Fascinated despite himself Balthier watched, captivated, as those fingers moved and Eraldo's chest did not. It was almost as if only one part of his dead flesh could be animate at a time.

'No,' Eraldo breathed out finally concluding his deliberations. 'No. I shall have pirate and pirate's apprentice both.'

Balthier sighed glancing down at his feet, 'Yes,' he murmured dryly, 'I was somewhat afraid you might say that.'

'Balthier,' Vaan's one utterance carried with it a wealth of tension. Some flavour in the air had changed. The heavy atmosphere was now filled with a crackling tension and the temperature seemed to have dropped by several degrees.

'Yes Vaan, I know.' Balthier kept his eyes rooted to Eraldo. The man had not moved, did not breathe in fact, but his eyes were now glowing a truly disconcerting indigo. The skin of Balthier's scalp rippled under his hair and nervous fingers of anxiety danced up and down over his spine. 'Not good,' he murmured more to himself than any audience, 'This cannot be good.'

From his left there was a noise, a cracking, snapping sound. Vaan wheeled around to stare at the far wall of the chamber as a gigantic skeletal ram's head tore free of the previously flat wall, empty eye sockets glowing with the same purple luminance that animated Eraldo's dead eyes.

'Balthier!' Vaan jumped back, hand reaching out to grab at Balthier and pull him back a step.

Balthier did not turn to look but instead continued to stare at Eraldo. He shook off Vaan's helping hand and held his ground. It was not as if they had any real chance of escape anyway, so why waste the effort on a foolish endeavour.

It was then, beyond the immediate horror of the arising Demon Wall, that Balthier thought he heard something else; a rumbling purring sound coming from beyond the outer walls of the chamber. A sound that was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. He resisted looking up towards the trembling chandeliers with effort.

'Cliché as this will sound,' he told Eraldo blandly as the Demon Wall of bones and claws tore itself free of the rest of the inanimate masonry and began grinding forward, tearing a strip through the carpet of bones before it, 'nevertheless I assure you, you will come to regret this rash action.'

Eraldo said and did nothing, lifeless as only a corpse can be. The deep throbbing glow in his eyes the only sign of life. The Demon Wall roared forward moving forward at rocketing speed. Finally Balthier turned to face the deadly construct as Vaan tried to snatch a sword from one of the undead soldiers still standing pointlessly to attention. Balthier grabbed him back before the skeletons could fall upon him and make him one of their number.

'Now is not the time for foolishness, Vaan.' He snapped sharply pulling the boy behind him with one firm hand around the brat's bicep. 'Please refrain from your natural inclination for the immediate time being.'

'But….' Vaan pulled free of Balthier, for in terms of pure physicality he was the stronger of the pair. Balthier body blocked him before the dim-witted boy could charge the Demon Wall, whose long clawed hands reached outward as the wall dragged forward using some form of propulsion that Balthier could not even guess at.

The ram's skull head opened and closed its skeletal maw on silent roars. There was a moments warning, Balthier twisted and shoved Vaan as hard as he could out of the way, before the bolt of Thundaga lanced downward.

Pain like liquid fire and friction burns cascaded through every nerve ending Balthier possessed in monstrous waves of sensation. He collapsed to his knees unable to breathe or think.

'Pyroclasm!' He heard Vaan holler as the youth dashed forward, the energies of his most powerful Quickening surging around his body in a tumult of flame coloured sparks and flares.

'Vaan!'

Blinking back aftershocks of white light and pain Balthier saw disaster advancing in slow motion. He saw Eraldo lift one limp hand from the chair and roll his wrist in an almost negligent circular motion. He felt the pop of a silence spell encircle both he and Vaan. He saw Vaan's Quickening die like a damp squib before it could be unleashed. He saw the unstoppable advance of the Demon Wall, long skeletal arms reaching for a dumb-founded Vaan who stood there like a mute tree stump right in the path of instant death.

Balthier staggered upward and a hot drop of melted wax dived right past the end of his nose towards the floor, followed by a shower of further drops of wax. Above his head the chandeliers were swaying from side to side like pendulums and that subliminal purring roar and hum from beyond these four walls seemed louder.

Balthier surged forward, gaze fixed directly to Vaan. He lunged tackling the idiot boy as the cold burning violet light from the depths of the Demon Wall's eyes flared. Vaan hit the broken wreckage of the skeletal floor hard and Balthier, managing somehow, to get his feet underneath him shoved the boy further out of the way as the spell fell. He hadn't come all this way to rescue the bloody fool from mortal peril only to fail at the last hurdle, after all.

Doom.

It felt like a sack full of woven cobweb falling down upon him. Instantly Balthier was enveloped in a cloying, non corporeal skein of magick that was the darkest of the dark. He felt the Doom spell invade his lungs making it hard to breathe, he felt it infect his mind making his thoughts slow and sluggish. His limbs were instantly weighted down and leaden, his senses dulled.

Still it was but a momentary discomfort soon over taken by the much more immediate danger of the massive, spindly taloned fist that encircled him, trapping him and hoisting him from the ground. Caught in the clutches of the Demon Wall, silenced and under a Doom curse there was not a great deal Balthier could do to alleviate his dire circumstances.

Vaan leapt to his feet as energetic as he was stupidly brave. Unarmed and without recourse to use magick the moronic boy nevertheless prepared to charge at the Wall. Vaan tried to say something (idiot) but could make no sound, which was a small mercy at the very least.

Balthier dangling limply from the talons of the Demon Wall forced his gaze upon Vaan and rather meaningfully jerked his chin upwards, gesturing towards the ceiling. Vaan looked up, saw the crashing chandeliers and for the first time heard the low rumble that had nothing whatsoever to do with the Demon Wall. His eyes returned to Balthier's wide with questions.

_Run. _Balther mouthed the word, carefully enunciating even though he too was stricken mute.

Thankfully as profoundly slow witted as Vaan could be he was not lacking for survival instincts. Bouncing back on his toes as nimbly as any couerl out on the plains of Tchita, Vaan was already sprinting towards the cover of one of the support pillars when the ceiling collapsed in a roar of broken masonry and shattered bone.

Therefore when the Strahl, engines growling protests and sending searing waves of Mist exhaust into the chamber in a squall of dust and bone shards, descended like a goddess of salvation from the shattered roof, it was just Balthier alone who was caught in said painful maelstrom.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three: The Cool Dark Spaces of the Soul**

He could hear an eagle screeching in his ears. The sound pierced his brain like rusty nails and made him hurt deep to the soul. In a cool dark place between alive and dead, awake and dreams he curled in on himself.

The bird circled above, huge and shining, diving and wheeling like a carrion feeder over a fresh carcass. Except that this bird didn't want to pick the flesh from his bones. This bird wanted his soul; she wanted his passion, his ingenuity, his vigour and his imagination.

Lying in the cool dark place where all the wounds that don't show on the outside ooze and weep forever, he was as naked and defenceless as a new born babe. Fear, bone numbing and aching, gnawed at him as he watched the eagle circle.

She wanted that which was his and his alone; she wanted to make her nest in the centre of his soul and dig her talons into his heart. Somewhere deep, deep down inside, he whimpered. There is no one at all to aid him here.

The eagle dived downwards then, talons forward and beak open on a triumphant scream. He could not defend himself and so he felt it, every sensation glorious and pure in its utter violation, as she ripped at him, tearing apart everything that made him more than just the worst of his crimes. She was stealing all that is pure within him.

Balthier moaned, growing cold in the dark place, losing himself one beakful at a time.

* * *

**702 O.V: The Hills of Chantilier's Rest**

We can make a deal, _He had told Ruthy as she finally awoke after Remus' beating in no state to negotiate well against him. Aeneas had left, almost in tears, and Balthier had felt shame flame in his cheeks for a second as he watched the other youth go. Only for a second though, for alas, Balthier had little time for remorse these days'._

You know my father yes? You know he is always inventing some manner of thing, hmm? _He had asked Ruthy mind darting ahead as he had strained his hearing for the approach of Remus' heavy boots upon the Antarii's metal grated floor. _

_So much to do, so little time; it had occurred to him then, to the very young man Balthier did not allow himself to be, that he really wished he could go home. He does not like the person he is becoming. He yearned for an innocence he is not sure he ever actually had. _

_Back in the there and then of the recent past Ruthy had agreed with him eventually, after much cursing of both her pain, and of Remus, and himself. She had agreed that she knew of his father's genius. _

I stole some prototypes. _He had told her once they had come that far. He was lying then of course. Lying even as he thought it all up; weaving the schemes and insurances that will one day lead to his freedom. _

Insurance, you understand? Nylous does not know of my cache, nor does Remus. _He told Ruthy and he thought at the time, as he does now, that it would have made things a bloody sight easier if he'd truly had the foresight to steal some of his father's mad designs on his flight from Archades. _

_As it is, he thinks in the here and now, he'll have to make do with some scribblings of his own and bury them in some likely place as soon as this fiasco with the Filpots and the Phoenix is resolved. _

Why tell me this? _Ruthy had demanded at the time now dedicated to memory. Still the woman had fast grasped upon the importance of his words. Draklor prototypes would sell for millions under the right conditions. Rozzaria would probably give away a regency if the provenance could be proven. Ruthy would never need to raid another sea faring galleon again as with control of even a blue print from the pen of Cidolfus Demen Bunansa, Ruthy could set herself up as a rival to Nylous himself. What a fitting revenge for the woman scorned by Cid. Balthier had seen those thoughts flit through her mind, nasty snarled place that it is, right then and there as he had watched her. _

_He hadn't needed to verbalise any of it, however. Ruthy had already given him the keys to control her blackened soul. All he had needed to do was smile winningly and say: _Whence all is said and done and my agreement with Nylous is complete, I'll need help keeping my hide from the inevitable fire.

_Ruthy was already enraptured then and there and he had known, with absolute certainty, that she was imagining just how she could gain control over _him_, as well as his cache, by being the one he trusted to snatch him from the fires of his own devising. He was eighteen years old and Ruthy was well over double his years, he had thought at the time, and it had made him tired to realise just how easy it was to manipulate her. _

I will of course recompense you for the bother. _He had smiled and so had she._

_Two Archadian vipers together, coiled in a bed of blood soiled sheets. There was poetry of intent in the web of it all, Balthier had thought at the time. He thinks now, as he had thought then, that he really doesn't like the man he is becoming, but he cannot countenance now, or then, the possibility that the freedom he yearns for is anything less than worth the price he pays. _

_Then again he is young still - he has yet to truly know the wages of sin. _

Yes, _Ruthy had purred at him in the then and there, stroking a bloodied finger over the bridge of his nose._ Yes my wicked brave boy, _She had said,_ I think you will pay me back indeed.

_Forward to the here and now Balthier looks down at the shackles Remus had fastened around his wrists. For authenticities sake, the bastard had said with obvious pleasure. The shackles at his ankles and wrists and the rusty metal collar around his throat linking the three together by a string of chain, are perhaps more authenticity than Balthier might have preferred, but he saved his breath against any objection. He is fast reaching the point where his luck (jaded and unreliable as it is) should break altogether and he knows this. Better to conserve serendipity for when he truly needs it. _

_Remus has long since left him and now he is standing on the same hilltop where upon he first met the Filpots. A symmetry to all things; it seemed mete to go back to beginning to make an ending. Balthier supposed that he should be thankful, at least, that it is not raining now. Waiting for the Filpots to arrive Balthier has nothing to occupy his mind with, save thoughts. _

_They are not particularly cheerful thoughts. _

_He looks up at the sky through the bald patch in the foliage at the apex of the hill. He watches the lazy clouds meander across the wide open blue. He thinks about flying and the inescapable reality that he is no nearer to flying today than he was when wearing the Judges' hated armour. _

_He thinks about this; he mulls it over like a lobo chewing on an old bone. He thinks about the knots and tangles of fractured and duplicitous dealings he is involved in. He thinks about the boy he used to be. The boy who had believed strongly enough in right and wrong that he had run from everything he had ever loved and known. _

_On reflection, Balthier considers, with nothing but the wind in the trees for company, he should probably feel heartily ashamed of himself for all he has done and all he is fast becoming. He has probably, all things being equal, betrayed himself utterly. Principles undone, beliefs sullied, hopes squandered and integrity bought and sold, and what does he have to show for it?_

_Rusty chains and the bindings of blood soaked promises of retribution. Still at least he is guilt of his own crimes and not merely a tool of a corrupt and oppressive state. The blood on his hands will be shed with eyes open, not spilt from behind the iron grid of a Judge's helmet. _

_If nothing else he can offer that as solace to the idealistic boy he used to be. He may be a rogue, a liar, a treacherous bastard and a criminal of the highest order, but he will never be a tyrant: that is something, is it not?_

_As he watches neck cricked back to watch the sky, he sees a bird in silhouette streak across the face of the sun. He thinks it is an eagle – and he thinks he hears her cry. It makes him smile and he hopes that one day he will fly so high as that._

* * *

**707 O.V. The Demesne of Eraldo Lumineres**

'Ffamran; Ffamran – I really think you should wake up now.'

Noise: talking; words. Balthier first became aware of them in a disjointed darkness wherein the meaning attached to those words was sadly lacking in translation. Sensation came back in painful increments. Someone was stroking the short, wiry tufts of his keenly cropped hair back from his brow. He was lying down, he felt sure of that. His pillow had that strange quality of softness and hardness that could only be flesh and blood. In fact unless he was very much mistaken he seemed to be resting with his head in someone's soft lap and his body supine on a bed of nails – if the sharp points of individual discomfort lancing his spine was any indication, that is.

Balthier groaned. There was nothing for it; he was going to have to wake up now. Bugger it. Life just wasn't any fun these days. Once upon a time he actually used to enjoy mortal peril – now he just ached all over from a multitude of old wounds and knotted scars that a man of twenty-three should never have. He felt old. He felt tired. He felt like he needed a change in out look.

Balthier opened his eyes and rejoined the living with deep reluctance.

'Oh thank the gods,' Anna Zargabaath peered down at him, for it was her lap his head was nestled upon and her fingers that had been raking through his hair while he was insensate. 'Ffamran can you stop this nonsense?'

Balthier blinked: nonsense? Before he was fully ready to move (Anna's lap was very comfortable; just the right proportion of strength and womanly softness) he sat up in one fluid motion of the muscles of his stomach and forced himself to turn jaded eyes on the scene of complete bloody chaos going on around him.

'Oh bollocks,' he almost moaned in despair at the bloody mess his life had become as he struggled to his feet, accepting Anna's assistance without thinking over much about it.

Eraldo's audience chamber was in full blown riot. The ceiling had an enormous air-ship proportioned hole in it, and a miasma of bone and masonry dust clouded the air so thickly it hurt the eyes and made the other occupants of the room indistinct. The Strahl's massive and ornate anchor had scythed right through the Demon Wall and smashed into the bone lattice floor beneath, lodging firm within a thicket of broken and twisted leg bones. Hazy dawn sunlight slanted down from around the hovering bulk of the Strahl and mingled with the dust clouds further eroding visibility.

This was almost a blessing as Balthier did not like what he could see of what was happening. Cursing a blue streak to make any scurvy knave or pirate proud Balthier waded into the melee armed only with the sheer, vicious blade of his frustration and displeasure: a weapon he could wield with lethal accuracy.

Firstly he grabbed Vaan by the back of the neck and flung him off the trio of skeletal soldiers the brat had been busily rending bone from bone with stolen scimitar and magicks. Half-throttling the shorter man in his ire Balthier hissed in his ear.

'Stop it or so help me, Vaan, I'll snap your ruddy neck.'

Not waiting for the startled youth's reaction Balthier flung him away, neatly side stepped a swipe from one of the skeletal guardsmen and carried on forward, batting the thick choking swathes of dust away. He felt something snag his shirt back and twisted to take a swing, managing to stop himself from connecting the blow when he realised that his tag-along was Anna. He dropped his arm as she blinked at him with large and startled emerald eyes.

Balthier curled his lip; bloody woman. He turned and pushed forward to where the flash and dance of magick fire told him Fran and Penelo were making nuisances of themselves.

A skeleton soldier reared up in the miasma almost right before Balthier's nose; the creature's pearly teeth snapping in constant grin, gangling gnarled bones clicking together unpleasantly. The butt of a rifle was shifted to a bony shoulder and muzzle raised to level with Balthier's own face. One skeletal finger latched around the trigger.

'Oh I don't sodding think so.'

Balthier pulled back his fist without stopping in stride and punched his hand right through the delicate centre of the creature's skull, where the nasal hole and eye sockets weakened the integrity of the bone. The skull shattered; Balthier's hand was torn bloody by shards of ancient yellowed bone. He didn't notice. Wrenching his fist back he shoved the headless spectre away from him and continued on.

'Ffamran – good gods,' Anna almost squeaked still staring behind her at the collapsed pile of bones that had very nearly shot them both. Not wanting to be left behind in this madness she caught a firmer grip around the waist band of Balthier's trousers and cleaved close, even though it was Balthier who was in her opinion, without a doubt, the most terrifying thing in the room.

Balthier ignored her; he ignored everything because the eagle was screaming and screaming in his ears and he wanted her to just _stop_. He wanted it all to stop. He wanted to go home, but of course, he didn't have one; hadn't had a home in years. He didn't have one because he was a selfish, prideful, fool of a man and he'd brought this all on himself and father was right to be disappointed and…..and……and……

_And it matters not; what need you for a home when I can give you the sky? I have come to rescue you, my mortal. I have brought your flying craft back to you. Together we shall fly forever. _

'Fran!'

As bellows went Balthier's was pretty impressive; the sort of shout that would give a stampeding Behemoth pause. Coming from a man like Balthier who was ordinarily far too civilised to ever dream of raising his voice (how terribly uncouth) the impact was doubled. It was as though the entire chamber stopped and held its breath - even those inhabitants of the room who did not breathe.

Fran, who had been in the process of delivering a Shatterheart Quickening to the head of Eraldo Lumineres froze, leg drawn up, eldritch energies coruscating around her lithe form. She stared at Balthier as he waded through the clouds of bone dust to towards the throne, already liberally streaked in grey and white powder.

Penelo who had been using Holy to fell swathes of the bloody undead blighters, gaped at him also, mouth open in total shock, as Balthier jumped up the three steps to the dais and grabbed Fran's arm none too politely, pulling her away from Eraldo Lumineres.

Eraldo for his part had maintained the same boneless slouch upon his throne that he had held before the Strahl's arrival. He regarded all with the same interest the average corpse might grant the goings on of the living, which was to say, not a very great deal of interest at all.

'Balthier you are…?' Fran began turning her much missed cool reddish gaze upon him and there just might have been a hint of relief to see him up and about once again in those unknowable eyes.

For a moment of disconnected time Balthier just looked at her, still gripping her forearm tightly. Fran: blessedly alive, blessedly unharmed by his previous stupidity; his wonderful Fran. His only friend, only confidante; the only person he could trust. For a moment anchored and reassured by her gaze he felt almost normal. He could almost pretend he did not hear the eagle screaming in his mind.

_Not her, not the Viera: horrid creature. Creature of the dirt and soil; you need her not. She cannot be for you what I am. She cannot make you fly. Do you not remember? Do you not remember she is ruined for you, now. _

He remembered; he remembered as the eagle screamed in his mind, harrying his thoughts and twisting his heart. Balthier remembered that Fran was not his Fran anymore and everything was not as it should be, nor ever would be again. He'd ruined it. The Eagle had told him so.

'What are you doing?' he hissed at Fran letting go of her arm as if the touch of her flesh offended him. 'You shall ruin everything.' He snapped.

_Ruin, ruin, ruin; she will leave you. They all will leave you. Come away and fly with me._

Ruin, ruin, ruin…….wicked greedy boy, ruined everything. The Inferior always drag down their betters; just like father said. Ruin, ruin, ruin and why wouldn't that bloody bird shut up?

_Fly, fly, fly away with me; I am what you yearned for. I am the sky. I can make you fly. Together we shall fly forever. Do you not remember: I am what you longed for all these years. _

'Balthier?' Fran sensed it of course; she sensed that there was something very wrong with him.

'Shut up,' he snapped, 'Quiet; can you not see I am in the middle of something?'

He turned away from her then because he didn't want to look at Fran anymore. He did not want to look at the mess he has made of everything he ever truly cherished.

_Ruin, ruin, ruin; she doesn't want you as I do. She is of the unchanging Wood, the foul and sticking soil. Not as we, is the Viera: she can never fly as we will. _

The eagle is screaming at him and in so doing drowning out any argument he might formulate; he thinks that there is something wrong with what she is telling him, he just can't make himself heard to puzzle out what the flaw is. Fran has palpably not left him, after all, and yet….. And yet all that perfect harmony he and Fran once shared it has not been as it was for months. Ruined by him; it must have been. He had to want more. Always so afraid to lose her and so he cleaved to her too tightly and strangled everything they had. Tainted now; tainted by him. He has ruined everything he had because he was a bloody fool; a greedy bloody fool.

_Cleave to me, look to me; I will never leave you and you shall never leave me. You do not need the Viera. _

Balthier palmed his face scratching at his hair line and sending a shower of dust falling down around his shoulders. 'I didn't mean that,' he mumbled through his fingers as he tried to massage out the eagle calls from his thoughts. 'I didn't mean the words I have spoken.'

They were not his words – he just can't stop speaking them. The eagle is too loud and her grip upon his soul too tight. He cannot quite understand how the Phoenix is doing this when the bloody thing is not here. Or is she?

Fran curled her hand around his wrist and steadied him on his feet. Somehow he manages the wherewithal to look at her. Concern is written very bold upon her features; an outrageous amount of expression for Fran at any time.

'Balthier what ails you? Your scent speaks to me of pain that I cannot see.'

_Ruin, ruin, ruin, ruin; don't listen to her. It was I who was there for you in Chantilier. I who brought your wings to you here; yet it is not me you thank. It is not I you greet with joy within your soul. I love you better than she: together we will fly, you'll see._

'It's been a long, a very long day, today has been.' He tried to make the words make sense but his usual eloquence has failed him completely. He has a plan afoot which Fran's rescue has ironically put into jeopardy. There is a very good reason he can't let her put an end to Eraldo, but it is bloody hard work to think about what that reason is when there is an eagle digging her claws into his soul.

'I will…..I just….I know what I'm doing.'

Fran stared at him; she is more worried than she has been in a long time. Balthier pays this no mind, however. How can he when that bloody Phoenix won't stop screaming in his head?

He jerks away from Fran's hold on him and takes his own weight evenly upon his two feet. There is a very large part of him that wants to curl up right here on the cold stone of Eraldo's dais, wrap his arms around Fran's legs and ask her to fix everything because he doesn't have the means to do so for himself. He doesn't do it, because he's basically an idiot and a fool and all manner of other unworthy things.

_You are worthy of my love, my mortal. I will give you the sky; you shall want for nothing else. _

Still the eagle is screaming into his thoughts and oh yes, of course, hadn't Fran been holding the Phoenix that night? That night everything was ruined between them, the night of the kiss. And oh look, look there, see it, do you? See the Phoenix – hateful thing – hanging from Fran's – his beautiful Fran – hip? Balthier could almost have laughed as he saw the web of it all so clearly then. The irony might raise a chuckle in any number of cynical souls Balthier had known in his time. Just like his bloody father: he has a monster in his head. That he is fairly sure he offered no invitation to his own personal demon is no condolence whatsoever.

_I will give you the sky and we shall fly always together: is that not what you always wanted? I am your freedom Balthier. You need no one but I. _

Eraldo's violet eyes burn into Balthier when he turns from Fran to stare at the animated corpse. There is no expression on the monster's face, because that would take more life than Eraldo can steal, but Balthier fancied that there was some fission of reaction from Eraldo, a bare flickering of purple flame deep in his eye sockets, as he looks at Balthier.

'I told you that you would regret attacking me.' Balthier could not make his voice disinterested and suave no matter how he tried. It sounded ragged as he tried to force the words up and out of a soul that was haemorrhaging.

Balthier felt sick and dizzy; dust coating the insides of his lungs and clogging his throat. He gripped the end of the arm of Eraldo's throne; palm jabbed by the sharp points of tiny fangs and bone claws. Leaning his face down towards Eraldo he is, oddly enough, no longer afraid or repulsed by the listless cadaver before him. Balthier muses absently that this might be because he and Eraldo now have something in common: they are both lacking a soul to call their own. Eraldo because he is dead and Balthier because the eagle is eating it while he breathes.

'You have brought this fate upon yourself,' Balthier met that violet gaze with impunity; the chill of death unable to touch him with the Phoenix perched upon his soul, 'When you made war against me.'

Eraldo Lumineres twitched, ebony fingers shifting over his chair arm, inching away from Balthier's own hands.

'What manner of witchcraft is this?' he asked in his bellows dead voice. 'Into my Demesne you come, with something wild within you.' The purple flames deep set in those inhume sockets dance and roil. 'Hume you are damned. A nest for an avaricious goddess art thou bones and flesh.'

Balthier laughed and it choked him. 'I know.' He breathed into the dead ear of a dead man. 'And you have just tried to destroy her nest, my friend. Can you guess what happens now?'

Dead men have no fear, or so the saying goes. Eraldo put paid to that idea. His dead fingers clenched down over the ends of his throne arms. The light in his violet eyes ignited. For a dead thing he is over fond of existence, Balthier mused in empty reflection as a ripple of icy power flowed outward through the wrecked chamber, passing over his own feverish body. Dead soldiers rose again; bodies shattered and incomplete yet forced into battle once more by the will of their equally dead, but slightly more fleshly, master. The bone floor suppurated; roiling like the ocean waves. Vaan yelped as skeletal hands lunged upwards from the thickets of bones to grab at his ankles. He slashed at them with his sword and nimbly leapt up upon the dais where it was nominally safer.

'More dead things,' Balthier sighed tiredly dragging himself upright and releasing his grip on Eraldo's chair. 'This is growing tedious.'

Penelo whispered the incantation for Holy and stood back to back with Fran, whose fists held the Holy glow as well. Balthier speared Eraldo with a contemptuous look before snatching the Landis Phoenix from Fran and hopping off the steps into the piles of bones.

Strangely, as he felt the Landis Phoenix fill his palm, Balthier was not sure if his fingers so much as curled around the statuette, so much as the object seems to stick to his hand by a strange static charge. He is not sure, now he thinks on it, if he really yanked the Phoenix from Fran or if it simply materialised in his hand as soon as he thought to take it.

Of course it does not matter he reasons, as long as the hated thing is nowhere near Fran or the others, he can breathe at least a little easier.

_To your hand I shall always come: my power yours, my mortal, if only you say mine you will be for now and evermore._

The eagle screams at him. Balthier fancied that she did not like his less than rapturous reaction to her possession of his mind and being. 'Be quiet,' He snapped, 'Or I'll throw you in the furnace belonging to the first weapon smith I find.'

The skeletons drawn to attention by Eraldo's displeasure do not attack Balthier as he prowled the room like one of Eraldo's chained Couerls. He doesn't blame them for their reticence. With the Phoenix in his hands now the pain in his soul diminishes somewhat; he can feel it when she pulls her talons out of his heart and leaves his thoughts in relative peace – at least temporarily. It hurt considerably still, for he could still feel the weight of her possession hanging over him like a cowl of heavy wet wool, but it was not the blinding, maddening agony of before.

_You'll not leave me again; we are one. I will be your friend. You will be my haven. Together we shall fly. _

'I'm not going to kill you, Eraldo, and you shall not harm me or mine.' Balthier told the other man as he leant his forearms against the skull festooned wall of the chamber. He could feel the cold fire force of Eraldo's attention and the eyes of his comrades all fixed on him.

Eraldo spoke but Balthier could barely hear the wheezing murmur. He pushed off from the wall so he could turn and face the corpse, 'You'll have to speak up, man,' his drawl wasn't charming; it was just tired, 'Your king cannot hear you.'

Eraldo stared at him, 'I offer you no fealty. Centuries have I watched dawn and die, and only I prevail. You are but a wrinkle upon the face of time.'

Balthier felt his lips curl up. 'Offer, don't offer,' he flapped his hands airily, swinging the Phoenix on the end of one fist, 'I frankly could not care less. I'll take your fealty or I'll take what life is left to you.' He arched an eyebrow as he leaned back against the wall, 'Gentleman's choice, but make it fast, time marches on, wrinkles and all.'

Dark flame shimmered in Eraldo's sunken eye sockets, 'Deity-ridden though you be, you are but one man and paltry few.' Eraldo lifted one limp hand and flicked his bony fingers to encompass Vaan, Penelo, Fran and a terrified Anna all standing together facing a room full of ambulatory skeletons.

Balthier smiled wider flashing teeth in a wolfish grimace, 'You think so?' he chuckled but then scowled as he looked at his own comrades, 'I did not invite them. I do not take credit for their actions.' He jabbed a thumb towards Fran et al. 'I have my weapons Eraldo and they are far greater than those you see here, or your own bony minions.'

Eraldo's eyes flashed and another Demon Wall ripped away from the masonry of the chamber, grinding to life with bestial roars. Within a heartbeat a second and third Demon Wall joined it almost collapsing the chamber completely as the walls tore free of their foundations leaving gaping holes.

Anna cut off a startled scream as she goggled at the walls; creatures she had never even heard tell of in her travels. Nimble as a mountain Nanna she bolted from the protective circle Fran, Vaan, and Penelo had formed and darted straight for Balthier.

Skeletal fingers plucked at her skirts and scratched at the backs of her legs but Anna's panic carried her forward until she barrelled into Balthier, who tugged her irritably behind him, offering her the disinterested shield of his own body.

'Thiswillmakeamarvellousstorythiswillmakeamarvelllousstory…..' Balthier couldn't make out what Anna was gibbering about and didn't try. He faced down Eraldo calmly with the Phoenix in his hand.

'More Demon Walls, Eraldo?' he shook his head mockingly, 'Somewhat trite, is it not? Surely a man with your macabre talents can come up with something new, hmm?'

'Balthier taunt him not, lest you have a plan.' Fran's admonishment was somewhat sharp and the look she gave him was heavy with suspicion.

Balthier scowled at her. Scold, scold, scold; that was all he got for his troubles. It was not as if he'd asked her to come here, was it? Really her presence was not even required. The Phoenix cooed encouragement and agreement in his head, soft as a dove. He felt the stroke of feathers against his thoughts.

'I have a plan,' he snapped, 'I always _had_ a plan. I have everything completely under control – I always did.'

Perfectly in control; lots and lots and lots of plans; so many bloody plans; all perfect; all completely under my control. Everything is under control. I don't need you; I don't want you – it's all ruined anyway. You'll leave me. People are nothing but leeches. I am better off alone. I have the Phoenix and now everything will be fine, just bloody perfectly, _sodding_ fine.

_All will be fine indeed when it is just you and I and the sky, my mortal. _

'You are a mad man in thrall to a mad god,' Eraldo's eerie whispery slither of a voice reached him across the chamber as the Demon Walls boxed in his three compeers, and Anna gripped his shirt back tight enough to poke holes in the fabric.

Balthier felt his eyes narrow, 'Mad is as mad does. By the time the day is through I will have you licking my boots.'

For I have the Phoenix, Balthier thought as he caught the first rumbling whisper of the Bhujerban Armada on the winds. I have the Phoenix; I have the advantage in this engagement, for I have the sky to call my own. The eagle has told me so.

_Yes, my mortal, together we are unstoppable._

Balthier laughed as the dust clogged air was pierced by the screaming whistle of the first of a volley of Bhujerban air missiles.

_Let the skies rain down fire upon our enemies so that all shall know that they cross you at their peril, my mortal, my dearest host._

Balthier threw up his arms, theatrically, as the sky filled with the shadows of an air armada. 'I am the new bloody pirate king and I can command Queen's, and Emperor's to dance to my tune.'

'_Attention this is the Vashnabrak: flag ship of the Bhujerban air defence. By orders of the Marquis and her Majesty Dalmasca we demand the immediate surrender and deliverance of the brigand Eraldo Lumineres and the release of the prisoner Vaan of Rabanastre.'_

The air shrieked and the ground shuddered with the impact of multiple missile strikes upon the demesne of Lumineres. Anna screamed in terror and pressed her head against Balthier's back.

'Thinkoftheheadlinesthinkoftheheadlinesthinkoftheheadlines…..'

Fran, Vaan, and Penelo stared at Balthier with near identical expressions of mute shock upon their very different faces. Balthier met the banked fire glow of Eraldo's eyes and smiled as fires and screams blossomed and bloomed throughout the demesne.

'Bow to me, for I am your king.'

* * *

_A/N: aaaaannnnd Balthier gives in to his inner megalomaniac. Did anyone see that coming? I apologise to all reviewers of the last chapter, due to technical difficulties with this site I have not been able to reply to you as yet. I thought you might prefer I put the next chapter up first, more than hear me ramble on at you, but I promise I will reply to you all individually soon. Oh, and as a side note and in honour of Cyde, if you are still reading, from this chapter forth I shall be spelling the name "Zargabaath" correctly. ;)_


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four: 707 O.V. Demesne of Eraldo Lumineres**

The air screamed like a tea kettle left on the boil too long and a missile perforated one of Eraldo Lumineres audience chamber walls.

The missile shot through the air and annihilated one of the three Demon Walls hemming Fran, Vaan, and Penelo in. The resultant explosion spat out a thick shower of dust, and a hail of ricocheting debris, which had the fortunate luck of shattering the other two Demon Walls. The howling scream of the demons banished back to the never places tore at the ears for an agonising series of seconds, then there was the roar of a loud speaker and a heavily accented Bhujerban voice booming down on them all like a physical weight.

'_To all those below this is your last chance to surrender without bloodshed: By the power of the Estates of the Marquis Ondore and under the auspices of her Majesty Dalmasca we demand the surrender of Eraldo Lumineres and the safe return of Vaan of Rabanastre._'

Glowing purple eyes burned through a thick smog of choking black smoke and cloying dust. The scent of burning and the echoes of Couerls screaming and people shouting flittered through the murk. Still Eraldo Lumineres did not move even as his demesne burned to ruin around him.

Balthier rocked back on his heels and spread his hands theatrically. 'Hmm, there now, told you I had everything under control.'

Anna Zargabaath, her arms locked around his middle, lifted her head from where she had buried her face against his shirt back. Her breathing was fast and breathy, hiccupping on the verge of hyperventilating. She looked around her timidly but flatly refused to release her grip on Balthier's mid-rift. At his back she started tittering in rather worrying fashion; he feared he would soon have a hysterical journalist to contend with. Anna was shaking so hard the reverberations were running through Balthier's own body.

Fran, Vaan, and Penelo waded through the choking smog to reach him. The Rabanastran former street urchins looked almost scandalised while Fran said not one word as she curved a long clawed hand around his chin and turned his face up so she could look keenly into his eyes. He gazed back impassively; well aware of Eraldo's flickering phosphor glare upon him.

After a moment Fran dropped his chin and took a step back from him, he thought he saw her eyes widen in alarm, but didn't waste the time to wonder over much about it. Things were getting rather exciting after all.

Managing to pull Anna's arms from him Balthier hurried, almost dancing, to Eraldo's side vaulting up upon the dais to perch, impudently, upon the arm of the man's throne. 'I know and you know that a few missiles are not going to stop you.' Balthier paused to buff his nails on his shirt front, 'However it is a dreadful inconvenience for you, having to find a new lair to skulk in, is it not?'

Eraldo said nothing. He was still staring dead ahead through a hole in the chambers outer wall wherein it was possible to see various prisoners and assorted scallywags of Eraldo's employ scampering hither and thither in a panic. Some were trying to put out the fires in the out buildings; others were just running for their lives.

Balthier leaned in conspiratorially to whisper in Eraldo's very dead ear, 'I can keep doing this, you know. Archadia's Emperor owes me personal favours; I can raise battalions in the hundreds if I wish to.' Balthier chuckled, 'The question is: how fast and how far can your dead legs run, hmm?'

'I will endure,' Eraldo whispered in his cold and slithery voice, 'You cannot destroy me.'

'I don't need to,' Balthier smirked his reply, 'A corpse without a palace is just a corpse. You may be immortal, Eraldo, but you still enjoy mortal comforts. I can deprive you of them all and see you rot, figuratively and literally, in a deep, dank cell for the rest of your unnatural existence.' Balthier's smirk grew wider and sharper, 'Unless of course, I decide to be merciful.'

There was a screech of lacerated air and a volley of missiles pounded into the ground not far from the chamber; the ground quaked with the force of the detonations. Balthier snapped his fingers as soon as the after shocks and screams had subsided.

'Vaan – go and present yourself as saved, would you? Wouldn't want any of those missiles hitting the wrong mark, would we now?'

Vaan's wide eyes went from the fires dancing over shattered rooftops back to Balthier. He looked pale and shaken and Balthier couldn't think why.

'Huh?' he blinked with bovine incomprehension at Balthier who scowled.

'Out with you, boy; and be quick about it.'

He pointed in the direction of one of the large holes in the walls. Yet it was only when Fran jerked her chin in a swift nod of assent that the two brats and Anna scampered through the hole in the walls, waving their arms and shouting to the floating armada above. Fran herself remained in the chamber. She rested one hand on one cocked hip and watched her partner closely.

Balthier tapped his fingers on one of the cold domed skulls rising up like a fan behind Eraldo's throne. 'Time is marching on, Sir.' He drawled with complete disinterest as if he wasn't remotely worried that in mere seconds he and Fran might be blown to buggery by a missile bullseye.

'What do you want?' Eraldo didn't move, didn't emote or express any reaction as a living man might, but there was definitely something in the throb and pulse of cold power in his violet eyes that suggested Balthier was playing with fire by baiting him. Of course, Balthier liked to play with fire, so that was alright then.

His lips turned up dangerously, 'My liege,' he purred, 'You should address me as "my liege".'

Eraldo's limp, almost skeletal thin hand jumped where it lay upon his throne arm. It was an outrageous reaction from the languid corpse. The dark fire deep in his sunken eyes flared dangerously. 'You would dare…?'

'Yes,' Balthier cut him off, 'Yes I would dare, and in a moment I might even demand.' His smile was serpent sharp, 'Come now, Eraldo, they are just words; bland obsequies to salve the ego of a mere mortal man. Surely you can find breath to whisper such? I am just a wrinkle in time after all.' He gestured broadly at the destruction he had wrought upon Eraldo, 'And you are an immortal god among us poor, fleshly humes.'

He paused as another staccato of missile fire ruptured the air and the eardrums of all near. He smiled down on Eraldo beatifically, 'What can it possibly hurt you, hmm?'

'Balthier!'

Fran's voice was almost sharp; sharp as her heels across the bone littered floor, 'Enough Balthier. You know not what you do.'

He looked at her a moment; a long moment. He stared into that spring water drenched ruby gaze and thought about whether or not he was inclined to listen. He didn't much like the tone she used; very demanding. It was hardly proper to use such a tone of voice with a king, was it now?

* * *

**702 O.V. The Hills above Cahahouli Bay**

_The cage is the same, the strange hallucinogenic compound searing through his veins is the same, the portrait miniature of a smiling Cidolfus Demen Bunansa and his pudgy year old babe is the same. Beatrice and Herriman Lucan Filpot were not the same as Balthier remembered from before, however. Herriman had an arm in a makeshift sling and a rather colourfully swollen face and Beatrice, although appearing unharmed physically, seemed to be in a less than patient mood. _

'So now your own filthy pirate kin have betrayed you, Ffamran. Do you still persist in believing their vile slanders?'

_Balthier smiled, sitting cross legged in the cramped iron barred cage and shivering from icy cold sweats as he tried to fend off the effects of whatever noxious substance it was the Filpots used to subdue their victims. _

'What vile slanders do you refer to?' _he asked politely as his throat closed down painfully and his stomach heaved. He leaned forward so his forehead brushed the bars of the cage as he willed another gut clenching spasm to pass him by._

'That you are a pirate; that you are filth and scum; that you are hated and reviled in your homeland.'

_Balthier arched an eyebrow curiously as the wave of pain subsided, _'Hated and reviled?'

_Herriman nodded behind his wife's back. The male Filpot seemed to be less interested in getting Balthier to admit to his antecedence than his wife – but then it appeared that he had borne the brunt of Ruthy's vigour during that ill-starred rescue a few days prior. That might explain his less than amiable disposition. _

'Well,' _Balthier considered judiciously, _'That's all right then.' _He smiled at the identical looks of surprise that briefly painted the Filpots faces, _'I would hate to think that I had put all that effort into my little act of treason only to be forgiven. What a frightful embarrassment that would be.'

_A laugh soon became a moan as another vicious stomach cramp caught hold of him, inching up his torso to wrap around his ribs and squeeze like iron bands. He bared his teeth against the pain and wondered how long it would be before Mary-Belle and her mercenaries arrived to rescue him – assuming that is that they were going to. His whole plan rather hinged upon the speculative good will of a stone cold killer, after all, and that was perhaps not a very wise gamble. Still beggars can not be choosers and the desperate must cast lot in anyway they can. _

_The Filpots had not said one word more and Balthier looked up at them, face contorted and drawn tight over his bones by pain. He frowned irritably, _'How much is my father paying you?'

_Beatrice (Bea) Filpot arched her eyebrows triumphantly and Herriman Filpot actually pumped his fist in satisfaction. Balthier watched them with open contempt: clearly his father had spared no expense in finding 'experts' to locate him. _

'You admit it then? You admit you are the son of Cidolfus Bunansa?' _Beatrice asked him eagerly. Balthier rolled his eyes._

'If it pleases you; it really does not make much difference.'

'It makes all the difference in Ivalice.' _Beatrice argued back and Balthier rolled his eyes again._

'I am not going to argue semantics, madam.'

_There was a pause in which Balthier shivered miserably. Beatrice picked up the miniature portrait of Cid and baby. She thrust it into his hands and Balthier dutifully looked down upon it. _

'I want you to look at this painting and remember.' _She told him very insistently. _'I want you to remember your lord father's good name; his care of you when you were small. All the many opportunities he steered you towards.'

_Balthier narrowed his eyes. A trickle of anger burbled up inside him and scalded the back of his throat. His vision wavered and fractured and he felt the great sucking tunnel of memory trying to drag him down. He tried to fight the undertow but was dragged down anyway._

'Remember your home Ffamran. Remember the house on Highgarden Terrace. Remember the firing range at the back of the estate; remember the swing rope hanging from the branch of the apple tree you used to climb. Remember the glossair propelled floating chair you designed for your father when his old war wound caused him to limp in the laboratory.'

_Balthier tried to claw his way up from the dredges of drug induced recollection. He dispersed the pictures in his mind that Beatrice' words inspired. Alas his other senses were not so easily controlled. His nostrils flared at the scent of apple blossom and his palms tingled to remember the rough friction burn of that old knotted rope between his hands. He heard the crack of clay plates shattering as he and his father took aim together on brisk Archadian spring mornings. He remembered his father's deep guffaws of laughter when seven year old Ffamran had solemnly presented him with the carefully drawn blueprints for a floating chair. He remembered the hours of fun he and his father had had trying to actually make a glossair propelled armchair fly. _

'This is not going to work, you know.'

_Balthier's own voice seemed disembodied and disconnected to his ears. Like Mist in the valves of an airship Glossair coupling, images, phantoms of yesteryear, surged up the tunnel of time towards him. A collision of past and present was imminent, and there was nothing Balthier could do but brace for impact. _

* * *

**707 O.V: Demesne of Eraldo Lumineres**

Balthier finally dropped his gaze, surrendering the engagement of wills in favour of Fran.

'Oh alright then,' he sighed deeply put-out and then turned cheerfully to Eraldo who was staring fixedly dead ahead still, 'She is always spoiling my fun; such a nag.'

He hopped casually off the throne arm and brushed off his hands briskly. He felt almost giddy, like he had spent a long hot afternoon sipping madhu straight from the bottle.

'Right then,' he nodded and tried to orientate himself as to where the door to this blasted chamber was. He couldn't see a bloody thing because of all this smoke. 'Ah-ha, there it is.'

Fran snagged his filthy shirt sleeve as he hopped down the dais steps, leaving Eraldo to ponder his undead fate. She pulled him up short with that one hand upon his arm.

'The way out is not that way.' She told him carefully as he swung around to face her smiling a little inanely.

'Hmm, I know.' He nodded. It really was quite odd but he was feeling rather chipper right now. He wondered if he'd hit his head. He hadn't felt this enthused to be alive in sometime. Perhaps he should badger royalty into fighting his battles for him more often? It clearly did wonders for his sense of wellbeing. 'That is why, dear Fran, it is a good thing that _out_ is not the way I wish to go.'

He pulled away from Fran and picked his way through the clutter of shattered bone and bits of homicidal wall to the equally battered and defunct doors to the chamber. Twisting on his heel before he vacated the chamber he turned to offer a flourishing bow to Eraldo.

'A pleasure doing business with you sir – and remember the offer to serve me still stands, but I'll give you a small time to ponder your options.'

Fran followed him out of the chamber, heels clattering on the broken mosaic tiles as he ran down the corridor. 'Where do you run to?' she asked him easily able to keep pace with him.

'I don't know.' Balthier skidded to a stop at a fork in the passageway. He pondered for a moment as bits of ceiling plaster fell down around them both like pulverised snow flurries. It would appear that Ondore's fleet were not over-worried about conserving armaments: they were certainly free with their missiles. Balthier tapped his palm against the corner of the wall as he considered.

'Fran can you sniff out any life down along any of these passageways?'

Giving him a look that could only be called dubious in the extreme, Fran nevertheless stepped ahead of him so that she could sample the air of first one, and then the other two passageways branching off from the corridor.

She jerked her head sharply towards the left hand fork, 'Down there – blood on the air, feeding the dust.'

Balthier arched an eyebrow, 'Hume or other?'

Fran cocked her head to the side and considered him a moment, 'Hume.'

Balthier nodded, 'Hmm, then I have found what I was looking for.' He set off at a brisk sprint down the corridor. Fran swiftly moved to the lead the way towards a fallen roofing pillar and the crumpled hume man underneath it.

'Well how now, Aeneas,' Balthier looked down on the wane, pain filled face of the man who blinked up at him from the floor. 'Having a spot of bother?'

* * *

**702 O.V: Trapped by the Filpots in memory most bitter**

_Memory ascended._

'_Ffamran Mid Bunansa, are you sure this is the path you wish to take?' _

_Serious and almost stern Judge Magister Zargabaath regarded him gravely from the other side of the massive gold embossed wood table. Ffamran stared at the other man's gauntleted hands. He wondered if Zargabaath was intolerably hot inside all that metal plate. His eyes skittered to the large ceiling to floor windows facing out upon the city. He watched a galleon airship float lazily by through the cloudy sky._

'_Ffamran?' _

_Guiltily Ffamran looked back at the older man, 'Yes,' he forced out through cold lips. _

_Something like the whisper of amusement ghosted over Zargabaath's expression, 'Yes what, Ffamran?' _

_For a moment Ffamran fought down a jolt of panic. He wasn't sure how to answer the question; he wasn't really sure how to answer any of this man's questions. It was funny, he had known Zavier Zargabaath is entire life, the man was one of his father's oldest friends and allies in the court politics of Archades, yet now he felt like he faced a stranger. A stranger clad in cold iron whose second face, a mask of metal, sat upon the table facing Ffamran like a grinning skull. _

'_Ffamran,' Zargabaath sighed as once again Ffamran realised his attention had wandered, 'Ffamran, you do not truly want to do this.' _

_The man tapped his hands over the half dozen sheets of painstakingly perfect hand written application Ffamran had slaved over for hours before submitting to the Imperial Judiciary two days ago. _

_Ffamran hesitated, arrested by the look of compassion he thought he could detect in Zargabaath's eyes. He tugged nervously at the cuffs of his thick, heavy frock coat. His fingers were clammy with sweat. 'I do sir,' he croaked, 'Is my application not suitable?' _

_Ffamran was just barely fifteen years old; three weeks a graduate of Akademy, top honours, top of his class, top of his year, the academic jewel in the Akademy's crown, and Ffamran stood now in Judge Magister Zargabaath's private office high above the city in the Judicial tower almost squirming in his spit polished boots. _

_Zargabaath sighed and rustled the papers of the application in dilatory fashion, 'Your application is exemplary,' the man said as if the prospect that a Bunansa would ever be less than perfect was not worth consideration, 'You have obviously been studying the law, young man. Some of your reference points are quite obscure, the petty officer I had mark your submission was sure you had fabricated them.'_

_Ffamran jerked in surprise, 'They are real, sir.' _

_When he realised that his words could be taken as speaking out of turn he ducked his head. 'My apologies your honour,' He licked his lips, 'My father bid me study for the Judiciary entry exams.' He looked up, worried that he was not selling himself well in this interview and his father would be displeased. 'I have read all the major annuls of law cover to cover.' _

_Yes, and nearly wept for boredom. In the end the only way he could make it bearable had been to read most extensively upon the tomes of aviation law, and most of the mandatory examples of law mandates he had been required to pepper his application with had come from the peculiar bylaws that dominated Archadian aviation. It was little wonder that even Judges were unaware of them._

'_Ffamran, the Judiciary is a challenging profession. You must fulfil the role of soldier and legislator both,' Zargabaath pinched the bridge of his nose, 'And sometimes you must also act as executioner. Are you sure this is what you wish to do with your life? Would you not prefer to study aeronautics in Bhujerba?' _

_Ffamran felt his lips thin into a taut line and his fists curl at his sides. Of course, he wanted to scream, of course I want to do that! That is all I have ever wanted since I was old enough to know what a bloody airship was. It doesn't matter, though; it doesn't matter because father says I must be a Judge. Therefore a Judge I must be. _

'_A son's first duty and greatest honour must be to uphold the good name of his father and his father's seat.' Ffamran quoted by rote the greatest tenet of Archadian high society while staring fixedly at the ridiculously shiny surface of Zargabaath's monstrous table desk. _

_He was so busy staring at his own pale and bleary reflection in the glowing polish of the desk that he jumped, like an unbroken Chocobo, when Zargabaath rose smoothly from his chair and clapped a metal wrapped hand upon his shoulder. He stared up at his father's friend in fright._

* * *

**707 O.V: Demesne of Eraldo Lumineres**

Aeneas bared his blood covered teeth in a savage grimace as he looked up at Balthier coldly for a moment and then sighed, seemingly resigned to whatever came next.

'Should've known you'd bring the sodding house down around us,' Aeneas almost smiled, 'Always was your forte.'

The other man, covered in mortal dust and cinders and stuck under the weight of a singed and very solid plank of wood fallen diagonally across his torso and hip, started to cough pitifully.

Balthier met Fran's eyes and the Viera left without a word to find something to use as a lever to help dislodge the plank.

Balthier crouched down beside Aeneas' head and drummed his fingers over his ruined leather trousers. 'I warn you, I am very poor at this sort of thing.' He muttered as he concentrated on summoning healing magicks to his hand.

'Fran tells me that my healing spells are almost worse than the pain of any injury.'

Aeneas frowned at him as he loosed the spell. A moment later Aeneas closed his eyes on a wince but took a slightly stronger breath of air into his lungs. 'Your Fran is right,' Aeneas muttered opening his eyes, 'I think I prefer crushed ribs.'

Balthier almost smiled as he continued to cast white magicks, 'At least I now know you are truly alive,' Balthier murmured quietly, 'I had wondered, considering your choice of employer, if you were not a particularly spry dead man walking.'

Aeneas stared up at him green eyes puzzled and then he smirked faintly, 'So that's the reason you decided to help me?' he chuckled faintly, 'Should have guessed.'

Balthier hesitated, considered a jest in rejoinder about seizing the moral high-ground and then swiftly discarded it. 'I….' he licked his lips, 'I apologise.'

Aeneas blinked at him and Balthier soldiered on, 'I have often considered our last…altercation….and my actions that night in Chantilier's Rest, when you ran from Ruthy's service, and I feel some form of redress is needed.'

Balthier sighed once more and moved to see if he could shift the ceiling brace plank at all, as it could not be comfortable for Aeneas. 'On balance,' Balthier grunted a little as he managed to lift the log just a fraction so that Aeneas could breathe a little easier, 'on balance I think you were justified in your accusations. I wanted to apologise for what I said. It was wrong of me.'

Aeneas didn't say anything. He seemed too surprise to say anything. Balthier called forth another curaga and battered Aeneas' beleaguered body with it. After what seemed like an interminable time when the only distraction from Aeneas' silent and intense scrutiny was the distant crack and rumble of missile fire Balthier detected the clicking of Fran's heels. He hurried down the hallway to meet her and swiftly took up one end of the fire hardened metal fragment she had found to help lever up the log crushing Aeneas.

In short order they had removed the log from Aeneas' body and Fran cast much more soothing magicks upon Aeneas as Balthier carefully pulled the man upright and looped his arm about his shoulders. 'On three, Aeneas, and we stand, alright?'

Aeneas nodded jerkily, 'Uhng, ready when you are mate.'

Balthier counted off and on three pulled Aeneas upright with him. His former friend groaned in pain but kept his feet. Fran silently moved up on the man's other side to help take his weight and the threesome beat a swift retreat for the nearest exit.

'Balthier?' Fran turned to look at him over Aeneas' drooping head as they dragged him through the wreckage of the demesne. Reluctantly he turned to meet her gaze briefly. He nodded addressing the concern in her eyes.

'I know Fran. I know I am in trouble.' He took a breath and pulled Aeneas forward. 'But I am not yet broken.'

The weight of the Landis Phoenix jostling against his right thigh where he had snagged her to his belt was cold and dragging. He couldn't hear the eagle screaming but he could feel the bite of her talons closing down on his free will. He sneered at the weight: so the Phoenix wanted his soul, did she? Well, she would have to fight him for it.

* * *

**702 O.V: Trapped in memory**

'_Go home Ffamran.' Zargabaath sounded almost paternal as he squeezed Ffamran's shoulder gently, 'The Judiciary is not the place for you. Your talents lie elsewhere; wherein I believe you will serve your mother country far better.' _

_A tempest of humiliation and almost acid burning relief made Ffamran's knees lock and his hands shake, 'But my father….'_

_Father will be disappointed. He will think I have failed. He wants me to be a Magister one day like his own father once was. He wants me to uphold the traditions of the House Bunansa as he has not always done. _

_Zargabaath had looked quite kindly upon him then, 'I shall speak with Cid.' The man had actually smiled at him then, 'I think you will build better airships than will write laws, Ffamran, and we shall all be the better for it.' _

_Ffamran had all but fled then, forgetting all the usual obsequies one should perform before a Magister. He had run all the way home from Imperial Circle to Highgarden Terrace and locked himself in his room refusing to come down for dinner. _

_Later that evening he heard his father come home from the lab, accompanied by Zargabaath. He sat silent and still as a stone staring out of his bedroom window at the dusk darkened sky. He heard the raised voices; well, he heard his father's anyway. He dug his fingers into the edge of the window sill until his knuckles were white. He thought he saw the lights of an airship through the low hanging night clouds. He heard his father's heavy tread on the stairs and rose like a dutiful automaton to unlock the door. _

_Moments later his father burst into the room. His face was flushed and his brows rode low over his eyes. The first words out of his mouth chilled Ffamran to his soul._

'_I am very disappointed son.' _

_Ffamran had closed his eyes, 'I am sorry father…I…'_

'_Archades has airships enough. It does not need your input.' Cid waved his hands at the walls of Ffamran's room, walls lined with paper sketches and line drawn diagrams of various sky-craft designs._

'_The Empire needs men of good pedigree to advance her status throughout Ivalice. The Empire has been mother to you, Ffamran. It is your duty to her to take up the mantle your grandfather's passing has left unattended all these years.' _

_Ffamran spoke unwisely blinking dry and hot eyes, 'Why did you not take the mantle father? Surely it was for you to….'_

'_Do not question your father!' Cid's outburst seemed to rock the walls of the house. _

_Ffamran stared, too shocked to be afraid. His father had caned him before for some of his more extravagant and infantile transgressions when he was a child, but he had never raised his voice in anger at his son before. _

_Cid jabbed a finger at his son viciously, still standing in the threshold of the room, 'Tomorrow you will sit the Judiciary entrance exam Ffamran – and you shall pass it.' _

_Ffamran swallowed around the dry lump in his throat and dropped his eyes, 'Yes father.' He had continued to stare at the counterpane upon his bed until his father left the room, slamming the door behind him. _

_The next day Ffamran sat, and passed, the Judiciary entrance exam; Magister Zargabaath was the invigilator. Ffamran could not bring himself to meet the man's eyes. That night he took down from the walls and ripped to pieces every single sketch and scribble he had ever put to paper; a thousand ideas discarded in a wastepaper basket. _

_When he was fitted some weeks later for his first suit of armour his father had been very proud._

_Three months after that Cid set off for his expedition to the Jagd Difor. _

* * *

**707 O.V. Escaping aboard the Strahl**

'Take the helm Fran; I feel the need to pass out in some manner of darkened room.'

Balthier waved his hand negligently once they had dumped Aeneas on to the bunk at the back of the Strahl's cockpit cabin, the same bunk the first Gabranth had expired upon, and which Balthier now privately referred to as the "Judge's Crypt".

The bombardment upon the Demesne had halted as soon as Vaan, Penelo, and Anna had been safely escorted onto the Vashnabrak, and therefore Balthier felt more than confident that Fran could pilot them out of this gods forsaken place on her lonesome.

Not that he would have been able to fly even if she wasn't capable. As soon as they had boarded the Strahl a solid weight of impenetrable fatigue had fallen upon him like a landslide and it was all he could do to stagger drunkenly to the back of the Strahl and collapse in a disreputable heap upon the bunk in his cabin.

As he landed on his narrow, thin mattress he experienced a sharp, jabbing pain in his hip and soft tissue of his groin that had him swiftly rolling over with a startled curse rising to his lips. Furiously, with fumbling fingers he detached the Landis Phoenix (which was indeed the object impudent enough to poke him in the never regions) from his belt and flung it across the room where it impacted with the cabin wall with a resounding crack.

'Bloody thing, leave me alone.' He growled and received a piercing eagle's shriek for his troubles.

_Never, your soul is mine._

Balthier curled his lips, 'I think not.'

The Strahl rose into the air, the familiar and comforting vibrations from the engines reminding him of just how achingly tired he was. he slumped down upon his pillows still glaring at the Phoenix which lay where it had fallen on the floor by the far wall.

_What you think matters not; we two are one. You shall ne'er fly again if not upon my wings._

He could feel a certain smugness emanating from the voice in his head. The thought of losing his wings, metaphorically and otherwise, made his blood run cold. After everything he had endured to reach this point, what would he do should he never again have the freedom to fly?

'I'll fight,' he mumbled exhaustion slurring his words and genuine panic making him childish in his utterances.

_You will lose my host. _The Phoenix cooed so very, very confident, _For what is Balthier if he cannot fly? What becomes of the great sky pirate when his wings are clipped? You will yield unto me my mortal; for I now possess all that you live for._

Balthier closed his eyes, trying to drown out her words. It was sheer stubbornness alone that stopped him from curling up into a protective ball on his bunk like a foolish child.

What is Balthier if he cannot fly? Nothing; he is nothing at all without his wings. As he well knew. Yet it is the thought of what he might agree to do, to remain in flight that terrified Balthier more than anything he had ever believed possible.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five: 702 O.V. The hills above Cahahouli Bay – The Filpots Caravan**

_Balthier snapped awake, bouncing free of the web of forcibly induced memory so abruptly it actually hurt. Rousing disjointedly Balthier realised belatedly that in fact the pain he was experiencing was due to the fact that he seemed to have fallen sideways upon the floor of his cage and that something hard and pointy was jabbing into his ribs. _

_Fumbling blearily for the offending object with clumsy fingers Balthier found himself holding the Landis Phoenix statuette under the pale and lack lustre moon. _

'Well I'll be blowed….' _He croaked more bemused than anything else, _'How did this get here?'

_Hadn't Hamish had the statuette last? Balthier was almost certain the bastard pirate had taken it with him when he left his cabin aboard the Antarii to make the acquaintance of the two Filpots; hmm, how very….odd…that it should turn up here with him, inside a cage. _

_Rising to a sitting position was not easy but Balthier managed it in the end and as he did so he finally realised that the constant, dizzying rocking sensation he was currently experiencing was actually not a side effect of the drugs he had been dosed with but instead due to the slightly more concerning fact that the Filpot's caravan was on the move. _

_Startled Balthier grabbed the bars of his cage and watched as trees and bushes, dark painted grey-green under the moon, flitted past. The Chocobo pulled caravan and trailer cart was trundling at good pace down the hill, which coincidentally meant they were travelling away from any spot Balthier's possible rescuers might go to find him. _

'Why does nothing ever go as planned?'

_Frustration masked dawning panic as Balthier's left hand curled absently around the Landis Phoenix. He had no idea how the strange object came to be here, and frankly that was the least of his worries at the present time. Still the statuette had proved a useful bludgeoning tool in the past: perhaps if needs must, he could use it against the Filpots? _

_A tingle of static burst forth from the statuette and coursed through his palm to dance up his arm. Balthier jerked his hand away, instinctively trying to release the light hold he had on the object. It seemed then that time rippled, like a stone breaking the surface of a still pond, and there was a sound like a clean linen sheets being flapped in the air. _

_Balthier let out a highly undignified yelp of surprise as inexplicably he found himself thudding face and chest first onto the stony ground of the hill road. The impact was still coursing painfully through his body as he began to roll, limbs akimbo, down the hill. _

_The Filpots caravan was drawn up sharply as Herriman heard the shout of surprise and looked around to see their gentry quarry fly off the back of the cart, somehow free of his cage, and bounce heavily along the roadside._

'Bloody blue blazes,' _Herriman leapt from the slowing caravan, grabbing up his military issue sabre as he did so. He hurried back up the hill the scant few feet to where the Bunansa brat was staggering to his feet. Behind him Bea worked on drawing the excitable Chocobo to a complete stop._

_Brains all jumbled in the cage of his skull, Balthier stumbled upright, chest aching from a nasty impact with unforgiving grainy stone and chin oozing blood from a nasty cut received at the same time all the wind had been knocked clear out of his lungs. He heard the male Filpot shout and moved into a defensive crouch before his brain had caught up with what was happening. _

_The Filpot male made a clumsy lunge for him with the arm not holding his sword. Balthier nimbly skipped a step to the side and made a snatch for the man's sword. He was parried away as Herriman Filpot proved that he was indeed, once a man of the Archadian army. Balthier instinctively swung the arm holding the Phoenix in a wide sweeping arc to keep Herriman and his sword away. _

_A bird screamed directly above his head, and it sounded like an eagle lurching down in a dive straight for him. Balthier ducked instinctively and therefore, when Beatrice's blow dart sliced through the air, it sailed straight over his head and lodged half an inch deep in the side of Herriman's cheek._

'Harry!'

_Beatrice let out a screech to make any hunting bird proud as her rather surprised husband pulled the dart from his cheek. For a second the man stared at it in shock and then promptly dropped like a stone to his knees, eyes already glassy from the drugs. _

_Balthier was not about to look a gift Chocobo in the mouth; he made another, this time successful, snatch for Herriman's sword and dropped to his knees behind the larger, older man who swayed where he knelt fighting the effects of Beatrice's nasty narcotics concoction. _

'Do not move,' _Balthier ordered the furiously advancing Beatrice. He pressed the edge of Herriman's sword against the man's throat while using the bulk of the man's body as a convenient shield. _

'You will not kill him – you can't,' _Beatrice seemed genuinely dismayed by her husband's predicament. She remained rooted to the spot across the roadside, her blow dart gun in her hand hanging limply at her side._

'I can and I might,' _Balthier argued back, though in truth Balthier had no desire to kill Herriman or Beatrice. He had never killed anyone and had no desire to break that trend now._

'Let us come to terms, madam,' _Balthier said briskly well aware of the fact that Herriman's weight was becoming increasingly burdensome as the man somnambulantly fell against him. Balthier would never be the largest or the strongest man there was, but at eighteen he had yet to acquire the breadth of shoulder and corded muscle to his arms that would allow the man he would grow into to at least stand against those stronger than he. Disturbingly a fine tremor of exertion and adrenaline made his sword arm shake visibly._

_Upon seeing this evident weakness Beatrice made her move. Faster than Balthier could credit, she had the blow dart gun to her lips once more and had sent a dart winging its way toward the meat of the sword arm Balthier had braced across Herriman's upper chest._

'Bollocks!'

_Balthier tried to tear his arm away without accidentally decapitating the male Filpot but even he, in that long and transcendental moment before impact, knew that there was no way he would be fast enough. _

_The dart shot through the air aimed with perfect precision for his forearm. Balthier could do nothing but wait for the sharp sting of impact. From everywhere and nowhere an eagle screamed. Balthier jumped half out of his skin but then could only gape with the same incomprehension Beatrice had upon her own face at what happened next._

_The dart hung suspended in mid-air; its flight arrested before it could find a home in the flesh of Balthier's arm. Balthier had never seen anything of its like before; not even the telekinesis technik favoured by Judge Zecht could match this. _

_Heart thundering in his ears he reached out shaking fingers towards the dart and tapped the stem. It was solid, it was real, yet it did not even bob upon the air. _

'Son of a Bangaa's….'

_Balthier did not have time to finish his somewhat uncouth oath as before his amazed regard the dart quivered in thin air now turned solid and binding, twitched upwards so the point was facing skyward, and then flipped back upon itself. Once again there was a screech of an eagle and in open defiance of the laws of physics and common sense the dart reversed course and shot through the air headed directly for the female Filpot. _

_Beatrice Filpot was too surprised to do more than squeak in confused terror as the dart struck deep and grinding into the side of her neck. She fell much harder than her husband into the dust of the road side. _

'Well I'll be a moogle's uncle.'

_For a minute or so Balthier allowed himself the indulgence of complete, slack jawed shock and then he staggered, rubber-legged, to his feet and tottered over to where Beatrice lay in a disordered pile of petticoats. He stared down a little foolishly at the woman who was staring furiously back up at him as her own horrid poison raced through her veins._

'What manner of fiend are you boy, to command laws beyond science?' _her voice was slurred but he heard the fear and aversion clear enough._

_Balthier opened his mouth to speak and found he had not a word to say. His jaw worked, his teeth clicked together, but words failed to form._

'Well……hmmm,' _He breathed out through his teeth as he snapped his jaws closed. _

_Dazedly he wandered a little ways from the female Filpot towards the caravan. He entered the caravan and lit one of the oil light lamps. The inside of the Filpot's little wheeled dwelling smelled of linseed oil and lard; a strange combination. Across the small table top that extended from the wall there was a contract emblazoned with the Bunansa seal and the miniature portrait of Baby Ffamran and his father. _

_Still clutching the Phoenix loosely in his fist Balthier reached with his free hand for the portrait and shoved it into the pocket of his tattered trousers impulsively, refusing to think over long on what he was doing or why. Taking a breath he lifted the contract in his hand and forced himself to read what was written._

I Cidolfus Demen Bunansa Esq. PhD. M.A. accord the above named individuals with the commission of retrieving my son and heir, Ffamran Mid Bunansa, from where so ever he is currently to be found and returning him forthwith to my care. In the event that it is not possible to find my living heir, I commission the aforementioned individuals so named in this contract with delivering unto me proof concrete and incontrovertible of my son and heir's demise.

_For a long moment Balthier simply let his eyes rove over the carefully scribed text, one, twice; thrice. Almost distractedly he wondered whom his father or the Filpots had employed to scribe this contract, for he knew well that his father's hand was never this neat. The signature and the green wax seal were authentic though. Balthier swung the Phoenix absently in the one hand as he dropped the contract back down onto the table, deep in thought. _

'Incontrovertible proof of demise, hmm?' Balthier murmured to no one in particular.

_Suddenly inspired Balthier deposited the Phoenix on the table top upon the crisp parchment of the contract and withdrew his small dagger from his hip sheath (accustomed to the use of firearms he had clear forgotten he was even carrying a knife when confronted with the Filpots). Fastidiously checking the dagger blade for any grains of dirt or other impurities he rolled up the sleeve of his right arm and ran the tip of the dagger smoothly up the length of the vein, opening a shallow cut from wrist to elbow. He squeezed the edges of the cut until thick globules of ruby blood welled up and spilled down the sides of his arm. _

_Letting his blood dribble down his arm he hacked away his right sleeve from below the elbow and daubed the dirty white cloth in his own blood. Then, for added effect, he slathered the sides of his dagger in the trails of blood until the blade was covered. Balthier then bundled the naked blade up inside the ragged blood soaked cuff of his shirt and dumped the macabre collection on the table top. _

'Now I need but paper and a stylus.'

_Casting his eyes around the cramped surroundings his flitting gaze eventually alighted upon what he was looking for. The sharp point of the fountain pen stung the cut on his arm as he daubed the tip in his blood and scratched out a simple note beginning with the date:_

On this day, in the year 702 O.V. the pirate Balthier did murder one Ffamran Mid Bunansa, heir of Cildofus Demen of the same family. Leave off your search old man, for your son is gone, ne'er to return to you.

_Liberally splotched with spatters of blood and inked in the same, the scrap of paper and its terse message, alongside the blood stained cloth, would hopefully prove enough to dissuade his father from further attempts to find him. _

_With a satisfied sigh (and to think he had not even needed to be rescued – all he had needed was the timely intervention of a useful mantle ornament!) Balthier put his back into the task of dragging the insensate (and twitching in the throes of nightmares) Filpots into their caravan._

_Exhausted from his labours Balthier almost forgot to pick up the Phoenix from the Filpots' table. Remembering only in at the last minute he thoughtlessly reached for said ornament with his blood dripping right hand._

_Alas it is so often the little things, the oversights of the moment, that later prove the most damning._

_Thus it was with Balthier, as distractedly he took up the Phoenix in hands coated with his own spilled blood and in so doing coated the statuette with that self-same nectar of life. He did not feel the tingle fission of magick that was invoked by this one thoughtless act, and it would be years before he would know the consequences of it. _

_Blood spilled demands blood spilled again. The Phoenix drank deep upon the blood of one whose spirit would soar free and she did like the taste._

* * *

**707 O.V: The Moors of Mara: Landis **

Fran had had many years of wandering with which to witness a wide gamut of Hume behaviours; so much so that she had become something of a connoisseur of such. She has seen war and destitution; she has seen joy and triumph written large upon the faces of humes both strange and dear to her. From her partner, that most dear of humes, she has been treated to such nuances of emotion as she could ever wish to see. He is a creature of his wits and passions; ever changing like the turning tides and the rolling seasons of the year.

She cannot predict him and in thus does she derive such pleasure from him; he is the questions that the Wood would not permit her to ask.

Yet for all that, the vagaries of hume nature he has displayed over last days past, however, she would sooner have done without.

'Balthier this madness cannot persist; we must make for Landia wherein Larsa and Hamish both, await the return of the Phoenix.'

Pushing open the door to his cabin, Fran stepped into the stale air and damp of the room. The scent of hume desperation and unwashed flesh tickling her nostrils.

She walks over the clothing and book strewn floor towards the lump under the piled rough wool blankets on the bunk bolted to the far wall. The usual impeccable order Balthier kept his belongings in was now lacking. A storm of frustration has left the room in utter disorder. White linen shirts flung hither and thither, spare belt pouches emptied of their contents and left discarded across the floor. There are dog-eared books left open to the air, annotated with almost illegible notations, filling every available space. Indentations and puckered impact marks denote the numerous failed attempts that Balthier has made to smash the Phoenix statue to pieces upon the steel walls of his cabin.

She can hear his breathing as she approaches, though he makes no attempt to acknowledge her presence.

Repressing a trickle of annoyance that did not trouble her outer stoicism, Fran pulled away the carapace of sweat soaked blankets from the shivering lump upon the bunk. Balthier does not react; his eyes screwed closed and his features pinched and drawn under a thick coating of week old beard stubble. Clutched against his chest the Landis Phoenix's sharp beak prods into his breastbone.

The rank stench of hume distress almost caused Fran to step away. Balthier shivered, bereft of his protective coating of woollen blanket. He has closed in on himself, a butterfly returning to a tight and dark self-imposed chrysalis, these last few days. It pains Fran to see that the consummate performer can no longer maintain his act.

The leading man is undone, and left exposed to cruel truth.

Crouching down beside the bunk upon a clear space on the floor Fran breathed in shallowly through her mouth as she pulled Balthier around so that he was forced to face her. His eyes remain closed but, despite this, she knows that he has not slept in days. Fran cups his ragged chin, tilting his face up as he tries to duck his head defensively towards his collarbone.

'How now pirate, is this not poor show?' she murmurs softly as one would to a child.

Balthier shudders; she still maintains the hope that he can hear her, somewhere above the eagle's screaming, but make him respond she cannot. He is mewed up to his malady and the Phoenix he either refuses to be parted from, or is unable now to let go of.

Fran is not sure which it is; that Balthier would ever give his will to another Fran does not believe could ever come to pass, but that he might be seduced into a temporary pact with a being so well able to grant his heart's desires, and thusly find himself ensnared, that is a possibility she cannot completely disregard.

Her partner is a creature of his passions and passions can corrupt; she knows him to be a man who does not always use due caution in his dealings, and instead favours any dealings that will grant him the freedom to fly as he will.

Much as one might pet a child or a kept Dreamhare Fran scraped the long fingernails of her hand through the mussed and sweaty clumps of Balthier's disordered hair. She murmurs Vieran words of comfort to her ailing partner; if she cannot rouse him to life and vigour once again perhaps she can soothe him to sleep?

Yet she fears he is already beyond her reach, for she hears the eagle screaming once again.

Her partner's decline was swift, after escaping Eraldo's cold grip.

At first Fran could detect only an abstracted anxiety, a more than usual sharpness to his words and actions, as he coerced the hume Aeneas to go to Balfonheim and leave them be. What hope Balthier had of this commission Fran to this day remains unsure; she senses that there is a twisted link between the two humes, one that had moved Balthier to suspicious consideration of Aeneas' needs.

Still Fran had argued with Balthier that sending a man who was at best antipathetic towards him, to Balfonheim wherein Rikken and Elza (those who had set the bounty upon his head and stirred the pirates to murderous intent to begin with) dwelt was not wise. Balthier had turned to look at her with eyes more tired than jaded and said simply:

'If Aeneas is there gaining instruction on where to stick the knife he is thusly not _here_ performing the act.'

'You add fuel to the fires of your downfall,' Fran had rejoined and Balthier, pale and trembling, had not smiled. Instead he had winced and closed his eyes before saying in strained voice:

'Do you hear that eagle screaming?'

Vaan and Penelo to Dalmasca had been swiftly dispatched by Halim Ondore, once retrieved from Lumineres Demesne. In truth Fran suspected that the two young Humes would sooner have returned to she and Balthier than their home. Nevertheless the Queen had a want to see them alive (and no doubt wanted an accounting of just what Balthier was up to) and therefore the children had little choice but to obey.

'Good,' Balthier had said when she had brought him the news that the children were safely back where they belonged, 'Better they are well shot of all this.'

'You push away all available allies, Balthier. Do you court your own destruction?' she had queried, watching as her partner's fingers ran with nervous preoccupation over the stone and metal plumage of the Landis Phoenix.

'I do away with all available cannon fodder and hostages in the making, Fran.' Balthier had answered with ne'er a smirk in evidence; eyes glassy and blank staring. It was then, when the eagle had called, that Fran too had heard her triumphant screech ringing in her ears, and seen said triumph clearly in the flinching of her partner's muscles, and hunching of his shoulders into cowed stoop.

What had become of the hume Anna Zargabaath, after her rescue from Dorstonis, Fran was not certain, but she suspected strongly that the woman would return.

'She'd be wise to stay well clear,' Balthier had said when Fran raised the possibility that the lady would return, 'But I suspect you are right Fran: I am not so lucky as to escape the debts owing to that lady, and she seemed of a mind to collect with interest.'

That night the eagle's screams had granted no respite to either Fran or Balthier. To Fran's ears it was the cawing of carrion feeders picking over corpses. What the eagle's cries portended to Balthier Fran was almost glad not to know.

Nevertheless, once divested of unnecessary and uninvited guests, Fran had been unsurprised when Balthier had set a heading for Landis and thrown himself immediately into researching the myth of the Phoenix.

'Why for not simply return the Landis Phoenix to the Landis? Of Landis' forging was this vessel wrought; in the knowledge of men of Landis perhaps lies the answer to our freedom from it.'

She had argued as Balthier submerged himself in the history and folklore of the ancient republic by day, and they were both driven to sleepless hours of misery by night.

Balthier had looked up at her when she had thus spoken, face pale as a waxen moon, and eyes deep sunk in wells of shadow within his skull.

'I can't,' he had stated without his usual eloquence, 'Gods be damned Fran, do you not think I would toss this bloody thing in the nearest blacksmith forge and be done, if I could?'

Fran had studied him for a moment then. She heard well, and knew well, what the Phoenix offered him; a sky unbound and granted onto him: his to master evermore. She thought on the dissatisfaction, the restless ill-humour that had so vexed her partner since Bahamut's fall and Lemures' trials. He grew bored of his life, Fran knew this, and sought a new horizon to conquer.

The shooting star running out of sky to blaze across; she had always known he would burn out early.

Without a word more she had left him on that day; left him with the Phoenix clutched tight to his breast, poring over dusty tomes. That night her ears rang with the glorying screams of the Phoenix.

Evermore it was the same for a week passed and seven days more.

Fran heard it every time the eagle screamed in Balthier's ears. She saw how swiftly his ears became deaf to all else. She saw the fight he fought without a word spoken; a fight with that which owned his soul. She knew him lost before he did but found that there was little she could do. At night under dominion of the eagle's cries Fran and Balthier languished, and the rising of the sun offered naught in solace.

Her suggestions to entreaties became and he, struggling in a battle already lost, could not hear her.

'Can you hear that noise, Fran?'

He would ask her as he paced the close spaces of the Strahl, unwashed, unshaven, tearing at one soiled cuff or holding aloft before his bleary eyes a book whose words offered no solutions.

'Can you hear the eagle screaming?'

Fran would answer, that yes, she heard it well. She would tell him that if he would truly be free of the grip the Phoenix had upon him he must release his grip upon the Phoenix in turn. Like two combatants locked in deadly physical combat they had choke hold upon the other; neither could gain the upper hand and neither could be free of the other.

He did not listen; she feared he had already lost the ability to hear her counsel.

'If you will not return the Landis Phoenix to Landis then to the Lord Larsa release your grip on her,' she had tried one last time to reason with him, when it was clear beyond day that she and he together were ensnared by the power of She who owned the skies.

'To he who is now Gabranth, who is of Landis born, give up the Phoenix.'

She had come close to pleading, 'This power, Balthier, is not one that you can conquer: too much your soul is wedded already to that which she would snare you with. This honey trap is one that you can only fall to.'

Balthier had stopped in his endless pacing then and he had blinked confusedly about the place, as if only then becoming aware of his surroundings. He had turned his head and looked right through her.

'Fran?' she had heard him call as the eagle screeched within his ears and hers, 'Fran are you here? Fran where are you? I cannot hear you.'

Viera are creatures not born to grief or joy, yet in Balthier's company Fran has come to know much of the latter. Perhaps it was only mete therefore that she must taste of the bitter fruit of the former now.

It was with grieving heart, indeed, that she had watched on that day, not long passed, as Balthier had chased through the corridors and cabins of the Strahl calling her name, and cursing the Phoenix still clutched in death grip within his hand, for taking her from him.

Fran had followed, knowing that the Phoenix's triumphant screams of victory deafened them both to the cries of the other, as Balthier had flung himself to his knees upon the grated floor of the engine room and tried to smash the Phoenix into twists of metal and masonry, pulverising the bones of his own fingers to bloody pulp as he did so.

'Give her back,' she had just heard his own furious cries above the screeching Phoenix, 'Damn you, not her: you cannot take her from me.'

In the end Fran had had no recourse to action save to cast a spell of immobilisation upon him. She had dragged him back to his cabin and cast enchantments of white magick upon his brutalised hand; knowing all the while that the Phoenix had done what he had once claimed could ne'er been done:

The Phoenix had come between Fran and he and their partnership stood now shattered as the Phoenix statue refused to be.

Thus now, knowing that the Phoenix is ascendant in her triumph over she and Balthier both, Fran brushes her fingertips over the twitching cheek of her favoured hume in benediction and farewell.

She cannot break him from the Phoenix's hold. Alas she fears that no one can. How do you free the shooting star from the sky he was born to roam? To do so would be to destroy all that he is, and render him ashes on the winds. She cannot do this and thus she must depart; her own survival depends upon it, for she knows the sky to be a jealous and capricious mistress.

_To the dark and closed Wood, Viera go. _The Phoenix squawks in her ears causing Fran much pain, _Empty creature; you are old Viera, a tired remnant, lost to your purpose, outcast to your kin. A shackle binding him to soil and muck: be gone and live or stay and die._

She to Hamish of Landis will go, some remedy must be sought for this ill-starred union of sky and pirate, but it is with grieving heart that she rises from his bed side and leaves him. Leaves this hume she has no will to be parted from.

The eagle's screaming and the whipping gale causes Fran's ears to bleed but she walks unbowed from the Strahl's mooring place in the highlands of Landis. She is chased and harried, taunted and goaded, by the winds over the moorlands and the birds in the sky all the way. It matters not, for her soul no further hurt can take.

_Allow me to extend an invitation to you, dear Fran, and offer you the chance to share in mine own ambitions. You could be, perhaps, the first ever Viera sky pirate._

His words to her upon first acquaintance, to her ears do return, soothing the ache of the Phoenix's cruelty. Inevitably to the pledge he had made with most flippant manner her mind then retreats:

_I think that you are in need of a diversion to speed along your time, Fran, while you are sundered from your Viera wood. It would be my honour and privilege to provide you with such diversions._

A pledge and promise made almost in jest but upheld with greater diligence than he applied on ought else. She had made no rejoining promises to him, yet her leaving now a betrayal does feel.

She must leave him, Fran knows this, for she fears what should happen if she remained in competition with the sky. She fears not that he would disregard his pledge for the ultimate freedom the Phoenix offers; that would be his choice and she would never hold him back. No, instead Fran fears what would come of it if the pirate should choose the Viera over the sky and lose his wings forever.

_What should happen should the shooting star fall? _

The Phoenix had once asked her, when first her presence she did announce to Fran. At the time Fran had offered no answer but an answer she has all the same:

Should the shooting star fall, then down would fall Fran as well.

Better by far that he continue to fly, she thinks, and fly alone upon the skies.

Fran's ears twitch, the eagle still screams, and the night upon the moors of Mara, is a very dark one indeed.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six: 707 O.V. The Strahl**

He lay on his side in his bunk and the wrinkles of the under sheet irritated his skin. The rough wool blankets had long been kicked about his ankles and his knees were drawn up to his chest as he stared at the statuette in the corner of his sleeping cabin.

_Arise my mortal; fly and be merry. Together we shall conquer the stars and enslave the moon. _

Balthier closed his eyes and rolled over tangling his lower legs in the blankets and turning his back on the statuette. His head hurt and, although it was relatively quiet now, his ears still rang from the constant harangue of the Eagle's cries. He thought he must have slept a little, at some point, or perhaps he was merely losing time?

_My host, the day is young, why not rise and claim her for your triumph? _

Balthier tried to smother himself with one of his sweat soaked and flattened pillows. When it had become woefully apparent to him that he wasn't going to be able to oust the bloody Phoenix from his head Balthier had hit upon the notion of passive resistance. His research upon the myth of the Phoenix had provided him with some valuable information; he suspected he knew what she wanted from him and so, with little recourse to alternative action, his best line of defence was to deny her that which she wanted.

Thus it was that he had taken to his bed, refusing to eat, wash, dress, or otherwise participate in life's daily rituals. The vain hope that the Phoenix would quit his mind to find some more exciting sport elsewhere was growing ever more doubtful. Still if he starved to death at least he'd be free of the hateful mantle ornament.

_My mortal such melancholia does not become you. Forget the Viera; she was merely holding you from your glory. _

He knew that Fran was gone of course and thus it was all somewhat redundant. It was all bloody pointless actually. Not much point playing the leading man if no one was around to get the joke, was there?

_Take wing and fly my host, as you were born to do. _

Balthier rolled over onto his back again and pulled the pillow from his face. He stared up at the ceiling of his cabin. It was time to end this farce.

Balthier sat up, kicking his legs over the side of the bunk. His head felt heavy as lead and his empty stomach twisted like a nest of serpents, shrunken as a dried up corpse, against his spine. He felt sick and dizzy and dropped his head to his knees as the muted colours of the cabin swam under the blurry heat of his dry and aching eyes. He clenched his fingers in the tufts of his short cropped hair.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Ifrit - en route to Landia**

It was part misfortune and part serendipity that Fran chanced upon the Ifrit while making her own way to Landia, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the Ifrit chanced upon her?

Either way Fran soon found herself granted a not entirely wanted audience with Judge Magister Gabranth and his Emperor ward, one intrepid journalist who refused to be thwarted of her ambition for a story, and Vaan and Penelo, who had used happenstance and keen opportunity to find their way back into the weave of this tragedy in the making.

Thus it was to this company that Fran regaled her story of much woe.

'Wait,' Vaan's face was a picture of confusion, 'So you're saying you just left Balthier there _alone _with this Phoenix thing?' he seemed astounded.

'It is so,' Fran nodded wondering at the look of shock and almost reproach that touched upon Vaan's naked features. Fran shook her head minutely and dismissed such thoughts for later reflection.

Young Lord Larsa, pensive due to his imminent meeting with the Landis contingent and the absence of the Landis Phoenix, sat directly opposite Fran herself across the wide gold leaf embossed high polished wood table. He was pale in his high collar and padded red doublet with black work stitching. The ever attentive Judge Gabranth stood behind his ward and, absent of his helmet, the man's face was a mask of concern. Anna Zargabaath's pencil flew across a notebook faster than thought, her head bowed to her work.

'You say this Landis Phoenix is some manner of deity?' The journalist asked not looking up from her scribbling, 'Why would a god want Ffamran? He is hardly of devout character.'

Fran rolled one shoulder, 'Balthier sought to discover this fact himself. He found reference material to the story of the object's making.' Fran glanced at Basch, 'This artefact is from your country's past, know you not the tale of her forging?'

Basch stirred, shifting a little awkwardly where he stood in armour, 'Aye,' he admitted after a notable pause, 'but such myth and legend abound in Landis. I had thought this merely another tale passed down by old wives through the ages.'

'What is the story of the Phoenix?' Penelo spoke up from her seat next to Vaan. She and the youth seemed deeply troubled by Fran's news.

'Who cares?' Vaan interrupted, 'We need to get back to the Strahl and help Balthier.'

'The peace negotiation has already been delayed by a fortnight,' Larsa spoke up anxiety clear in his careful tone, 'Yet there can be no negotiation if Archadia cannot fulfil her requirements and return the Phoenix.'

He turned his large blue eyes to Fran, 'One must assume that parting Balthier from the Phoenix could lead to negative ramifications, perhaps from the both of them, yes?'

Fran once again rolled one shoulder in a gesture too bloodless to be called a shrug, 'That Balthier is complicit in this I am inclined to doubt. That he has history of his own with the Phoenix, I suspect most strongly.'

She shook her head to shake a hank of hair off her shoulder, 'I have seen enough of the power of the Phoenix that I doubt it not that the boy Balthier once was, upon awareness of the great advantage such would give him, would be most reckless in her use, no conscience or thought to future consequences.'

Despite addressing her words primarily to Larsa and Basch, Fran caught Vaan's reaction in the periphery of her vision. The boy shook his head vigorously so that his fine and over long pale hair floated about his head in his vehemence.

'No,' he said stubbornly, 'Balthier wouldn't do something like that.' The boy's blue eyes were very certain, 'I mean he's not interested in that kind of power. He doesn't like gods and he doesn't like people who use power to control other people.'

Fran almost smiled. It warmed her see that the apprentice held the master in such high esteem – more perhaps than was strictly warranted. Yet she worried that Vaan was over naïve and believed too strongly in the myth that was the leading man. Fran herself knew that Balthier's true forging was of much darker and bloodier making.

'That is not what she offers,' Basch spoke as if deep in thought and all eyes turned to him. The older man lifted tired eyes to address the room, 'The Phoenix was never a vessel for oppression.'

'Then what is she?' Penelo asked again and Basch sighed.

'It has been many years past since I have heard the stories,' he warned, 'And I am not much of a bard.'

The tiniest hint of a smile to his lips sprang and even Lord Larsa had twisted in his chair so he could face Basch, keen eyed and eager for a tale. 'I am sure you shall relate this tale most adequately.' The young man smiled generously.

Basch dutifully cleared his throat and nodded.

'The Phoenix once was said to be a mortal maid.' He began in almost stilted manner, dredging up the ghosts of tales from yesteryear. His faint accent thickening unconsciously as Landis' past he recalled.

'A strong and loving daughter of Landis was she. Upon the advent of a war, many, many centuries ago, when her brothers and her father were slain already, she took up arms herself to fight for Landis.' Basch's eyes twinkled, 'I have heard it said that she marched with Raithwall's armies and was there upon the founding of Dalmasca.'

'Wow,' Vaan breathed appreciatively. Penelo plonked her elbows onto the silkily polished table top and cupped her chin in her hands, leaning forward to listen with eyes bright.

'When, as wars do, this ancient conflict ended,' Basch continued warming to his story telling despite his previous protestations of inadequacy, 'This great warrior woman returned to her village a hero. She became a tribal chief, for in that time Landis was formed of many different tribes, and so great her fame for combat and fair rule did spread that many lesser tribes gave her fealty as well.'

'Indeed?' Larsa was now intrigued his brows contracting in thought, quick mind racing. 'This tale sounds much like the true history of the warrior queen Ista-bar-Badya, of the Incini tribe.' Larsa took pains to pronounce the ancient words correctly.

'I remember that the Incini were rivals with the Anches tribe, the ancient progenitors of modern day Archadia.' Larsa paused, 'At least that is what modern historical thinking would claim in Archades.'

Fran arched an eyebrow, 'Myth oft has basis in truth.'

'Aye,' Basch rumbled his agreement, he smiled at Larsa briefly, 'Whether this great warrior was Ista-bar-Badya or not, I am not able to say. I know that the warrior queen's tribe became the target of another tribe from across the great river of Saraches; the river that now winds a path through Landis and Archadia both.'

'So did this Ista…..whatever fight with the Archadians?' Vaan asked conveniently muddling myth, history, and present together in one simple question. Larsa winced delicately and Penelo rolled her eyes in despair of her friend. Basch suppressed a smile and cleared his throat.

'Aye, and many times; Landis' warrior queen and the forces of the rival tribe were evenly matched. They might have spent many decades fighting each other had it not so happened that the rival king summoned a great and canny man to his service,' Basch explained sagely before his expression darkened.

'It was this man who would bring down the Landis queen.'

* * *

**702 O.V: The hills above Cahahouli Bay**

_Balthier was feeling rather pleased with himself, all things considered, as he wandered down the tumbling hill roads towards the lights of the bay. He whistled a jaunty tune between his teeth as he swung the Landis Phoenix from his still bloody right hand. _

_It would seem that his fortunes were finally turning and he anticipated that his life would be considerably less stressful from here-on-in. Remus would owe him for providing the revenue from his own bounty and Ruthy was unlikely to show her face for some time. Nylous could be placated easily enough with some clever word play to convince the man that creating a permanent schism between Remus and Ruthy was a necessary step on the path towards assassination, and not in fact a way to avoid it. _

_Balthier smiled, yes, indeed his prospects were looking up. His father would give up on him and he would be free to live his life out of that man's shadow. Perhaps, just perhaps, Balthier might even persuade Remus to teach how to pilot an airship?_

_He might even manage to see his Strahl again. _

_It was into this happy introspection that a purring voice intruded, _'M' young sir, a word wit' you?'

_Balthier's heart rammed into the roof of his throat in total shock and he twisted in a taut predator's crouch, almost dizzy with surprise and alarm. From the trees, bushes, and materialising from the bloody darkness itself, a number of highly sinister figures, humes, bangaas and seeqs, appeared and surrounded him on the road. Mary-Belle sat on a tree stump, a clump of fungal mushrooms blooming by her feet, and took a long toke from her pipe._

_Oh bugger, Balthier thought with some passion. He had forgotten all about Mary-Belle and her brigade of murderous adherents; so much for that bright future. _

_Somehow a smile found its way to his face regardless, _'Mistress Mary-Belle, what brings you out on this quiet night?' _he gave the woman a shallow bow trying to grow eyes out of the back of his head to keep watch for knives to the back. _

_Mary-Belle regarded him with jaundiced eyes from a miasma of drifting pipe smoke. _'We 'ad a deal, young sir,' _she said. _

_Bugger, bugger, buggering hell; Balthier affected a look of grave solemnity and nodded gravely even as cold sweat crawled down his spine, _'Indeed we did, madam. I am most grieved to find you and your crew in dereliction of your word.'

_There was a general shifting of murderous intent from all angles as Mary-Belle's crew reacted to his words. Mary-Belle in contrast merely smiled, flashing bad teeth in the gloom. She tapped out the spent tobacco from her pipe and pinched out some more from a battered tin case the size of a child's palm withdrawn from the tight enclosure of her décolletage. _

'We be 'ere to rescue you, as you ask o' us, Bal't'ier. How dat be in dereliction of our bargain?'

_Balthier's nose itched as she lit her pipe and he had a strange moment of disconnection to wonder what smoking weed tasted like. He had never tried it and pondered whether or not, should he live, it was worth it to try a pipe himself; he'd heard it rotted the teeth and the lungs after all. Of course he was likely about to die horribly any moment now so his previous line of thought was most assuredly redundant. He would not have the luxury of time to rot his teeth and lungs. _

'It is true, madam,' _Balthier agreed calmly, _'That you are here now, but alas, as you can see, I do not _now_ need rescuing. Thus any agreement we had is null and void. You were not present when a rescue was needed so I was forced to employ other means.'

_Mary-Belle sucked in a double lungful of her smoking weed and pulled the ivory pipe from between her lips. She shifted on her perch upon the tree stump, her mouldering petticoats rustling like the discarded skins of serpents; dry as old tombs. _

'An' de Gil you offer to me firs' you den grant to de pirate Remus,' _she pushed the pipe back between her lips, yellow and black teeth champing down hard upon the end, _'You are foresworn firs'.'

_Quite abruptly Balthier lost patience with all these games. He sighed and pulled at his one remaining shirt cuff, horribly aware of the fraying mess of his right shirt sleeve. He was going to die in a horrible state of dress and it was all so completely pointless, really. _

'Madam, are you to kill me?' _He asked simply. _

_Mary-Belle chuckled sounding like an asthmatic but contented couerl, _'Yes, I do t'ink dat I will.'

_Balthier merely nodded. One step forward, two steps backward. It would seem he was damned to spend the remainder of his life (all thirty seconds of it) caught in a constant bind of intrigue and treachery. He was almost glad to be shuffling off this damnable mortal coil if this was all life promised. _

'Very well, madam. We could argue who is oath breaker and who is not until the chocobos come home, but frankly I have had quite a hectic day already and have not the energy for such lively debate.' _He glanced at the woman curiously, _'I wonder though, before you have one of your men murder me, if I could possibly try your pipe?'

* * *

**707 O.V: Aboard the Ifrit en route to Landia**

Basch frowned in thought before resuming his narrative, 'I have heard it said that the man the enemy king summoned was called "the whistler" because he could call the wind and the rain and the rising of the sun and moon to his whim.'

Basch smiled faintly, 'Sometimes he is called in tales the trickster and the laughing man; he was said to be of great charm and devious wits and he bargained with the king of the rival tribe that he could bring down the queen of the Landis peoples without the need for more bloodshed and loss of life.'

Fran cocked her head to the side, 'Such a man sounds familiar,' she murmured almost dryly and Basch actually chuckled.

'Aye, Balthier has much of the laughing man in him.'

'What happened with the queen and the laughing man, Basch?' Penelo asked forgetting pretence of dead brothers in her state of rapt attention.

'The laughing man came to the queen's tribe as a representative of the rival king. He claimed to want to broker peace, but not trusting him, our warrior queen had the laughing man imprisoned.'

Penelo's eyes widened and Vaan frowned; both children involved completely in this story. Anna's scribbling created a scratchy melody to accompany Basch's tale. Larsa spoke up curiously, 'One assumes that the laughing man was ready for this reaction and had contingency plans?'

Basch nodded, 'They say that on the first day the laughing man whistled a merry tune that summoned the birds from the trees, on the second day he summoned rain clouds to drench the village and on the third day ice to freeze the well; on the fourth day he made it night at day and day at night and on the fifth day the queen summoned him before her.'

'What did she do?' Penelo was fascinated.

Basch smiled, 'All in the village were much moved by this display of power, not least the queen. She told the laughing man that she would consider an alliance and marriage with the rival king if the laughing man would tell her how he came by command of the sun and moon, and to summon the birds from the trees.'

'Really?' Penelo was leaning forward even more over the table top, 'What did the laughing man say?'

'He told the queen that she did not really want to learn all his tricks: "for to do so is to be as the sky, the dancing winds, and the inconstant moon." Basch began to quote as he remembered the line spoken from his youth, "I am free and bound by no one; I am the sky walker and the traveller, to follow in my footsteps is to become as the wind in the trees."

Fran's ears twitched, '"Sky walker and traveller"?' she murmured almost sadly, sensing now a twisted perfection in Balthier's fate; for who better to the title of sky walker and traveller than her partner?

'What did the queen do?' Vaan asked curiously. 'I mean if it was Ashe she'd lock the laughing man back up until he agreed to do what she wanted.'

Basch's smile grew slightly larger, 'And that is what our queen in the story did as well, and every day she would come to his cell and demand his secrets. She insisted that she was prepared to pay the price for his great powers. Thusly, with secret smile, or so it was told me, the laughing man agreed.'

'That's what he wanted all along, right?' Penelo spoke up, 'To make the queen so desperate for his secrets that she'd take risks and not pay attention.'

Basch nodded, 'True enough. The tale goes that the queen became enraptured by the laughing man and would follow him hither and thither all over the land. She neglected her people, neglected her realm, and slowly the rival king's forces began to take territory from the queen without her notice.'

'Oh dear,' Penelo breathed out, 'She fell in love with the laughing man, didn't she? This queen I mean.'

'Aye,' Basch nodded sagely, 'So the tale goes. Eventually she returned to her tribe only for them to turn on her, blaming her for failing them as the tribe was now under the dominion of the rival king.'

'What did the tribe do to her?' Vaan asked grimly already suspecting that this fable did not have a happy ending.

'She was imprisoned and sentenced to burning upon the stake.' Basch said simply. Penelo clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.

* * *

**702 O.V: The hills of Cahahouli Bay **

_Mary-Belle blinked at him and pulled the pipe from her lips, smoke rolling out from her nostrils to float on the balmy night air like the mythical fumes from the equally mythical greater wyrms breath of flame. _'M' pipe, you wish t'smoke of m' pipe?'

_Balthier nodded and smiled, _'I've never tried you see and I would hate to die without at least knowing if I am missing out on something.'

_There was a heartbeat of silence so complete that it seemed deafening, Balthier waited oddly calm now that death seemed nothing more than a dull inevitability. He might even find eternal rest a pleasant change of pace from the constant strife of his life. _

_After a moment however he became bored of the penetrating silence. He sighed casually and plucked at his one remaining sleeve, _'I'll take that as a no then, hmm? I suppose a lady's pipe is a rather personal thing?' _He smiled politely. _

_Mary-Belle's yellowed eyes shifted flickering to the Landis Phoenix he held in his hand. She tapped her long nailed fingers against the hub of her pipe, _'You 'ave de Phoenix, young sir.'

_Balthier blinked and hefted the ornament, having almost forgotten he held it._

'Ah, yes, about that….' _He began wondering if it was worth trying to explain, or even better, attempting to bargain his continued existence by using the Phoenix as leverage. In the end fatigue decided him and with a sigh he simply held the ornament out to her. _

'For you madam, you have paid for her after all.' _Balthier paused a moment having caught the scent of backstabbing in the wind, _'I assume Remus has already collected what is owed for her delivery, hmm?'

_Interestingly Mary-Belle did not answer and her pack of trained killers were so still and watchful they seemed to Balthier as no more than a piece of the night. So much so that he had trouble remember to be wary of their presence. He was so tired he just wanted to find a warm dry place to lay his down and sleep. Right that moment he did not care if he never woke again. _

_Mary-Belle's worn ivory regard flicked from his face to the Phoenix and back again, _'She 'elp you escape, no? De Phoenix speak to you, yes?'

_Balthier stared, _'Speak to me?'

_Mary-Belle smiled cagily, _'Ah, so she no' speak to you yet…..or mebbe, you merely no' hear her?' _Something keen and sly flittered through the woman's eyes, and, quick as a striking Tchita serpent, she sprang to her feet and closed her two be-ringed hands over his as it clasped the Phoenix._

'So young a slip o' manhood, you be. You not yet ripe for her, I wager.' _Mary-Belle purred darkly amused. _

_Balthier tried not to show how tense he was as Mary-Belle caressed his hand, taking hold of his arm and running her long, dirty nail over the scabbed over knife cut running length-wise up his forearm. He hissed in a breath as she opened the cut once again and dabbed a finger into his hot blood. _

'Mm,' _her pink tongue flicked out to lap at his blood on her nails, _'I taste quicksilver in you veins, chile, but no' yet potent enough. You lack de wings to please her dat is in chains of ashes still, but me t'ink dat should I strike you down, her dat is power beyond power, would raise you up again.'

_Balthier found that his mind was shutting down and he could not follow any of what this woman said, _'Madam I do not understand you.'

_Mary-Belle smiled, _'I know it well, me young laug'ing man.' _she plucked his fingers away from the statuette of the Landis Phoenix, _'You see now, how I part you? Were you ready for her, chile, she woul' strike me dead 'ad I tried it.'

_Balthier supposed that his expression of total confusion spoke eloquently enough without the need for words. He shook his head dumb-founded wondering who this "she" was that Mary-Belle referred to. _

'Madam?'

_Balthier spoke up as Mary-Belle took the Phoenix into the cradle of her arms like one might hold a babe and began cooing to the statuette in a language he did not recognise and certainly could not comprehend. _'Madam, I ask again: are you to kill me?'

_Mary-Belle confused him (and probably most of her crew as well) with her next words. She looked up at him and smiled crookedly, _'No, I t'ink no.'

_She waved the hand loosely holding her pipe, _'Dere be Gil enough to be foun' in marks wit'out de paltry t'ousands you carcass woul' bring me.' _She set the pipe back between her teeth, _'I t'ink you be o' more wort' if'n you be allowed to grow, m' young quicksilver boy, den Gil alone can bring.'

_Balthier felt his eyebrows fly up his brow, _'You do?' _he asked without thinking, _'Um, by that I mean, of course I am.' _He amended hastily and was rather grateful that Mary-Belle appeared to be ignoring him completely anyway._

'I taste in your blood, m' young massuh Balt'ier, de will to drag down prince's in blood an' fire, an dance in spite o' deat' across oceans o' sky.' _She murmured through mumbling lips in the manner of seers of ancient past. Her yellowed eyes watched him shrewdly._

'To shoot down de shootin' star now an' feed you to de cold clutches o' clammy deat' before you 'as ascended de skies is blasphemy to dem ole, an' vicious gods dat I do serve.'

_Balthier felt some clarification was needed, _'So you are saying that you will not, in fact, be killing me this night?'

'Dat right,' _Mary-Belle's hand darted forward and she rather painfully tweaked the end of his nose, making Balthier shy back like an untamed Nabradian war horse. He frowned at the indignity; killing him was one thing but treating him like a child was quite another. _

'Am I to assume I now owe something for your beneficence?' _he grumbled rubbing the tip of his nose peevishly. _

_Mary-Belle chuckled and went back to fondling the hard cold statuette in the crook of her elbow. Balthier thought he heard the cooing of a bird for a moment before the assassin spoke again._

'Not I, m' young sir, dis debt be not owing to me, but to her dat is ever in waitin' for him dat took all from her.'

_Mary-Belle's horrid teeth flashed under the pallid moonlight as dawn threatened upon the horizon out to sea, _'De women scorned be a force in dis Ivalice more terrible den you men can ever be knowin' truly. I shall not take de rightful prey from de lady now she claim you.'

_Balthier tried to think of something to say. He tried to ponder all this out and found he could think of nothing at all of any relevance; his mind was a buzzing blank slate and he longed for his hammock in the engine room of the Antarii with a near physical ache. He blinked dazedly and found himself hoping someone would have some form of instruction for him as he was at a loss for what to do now._

'Go home t' you bed Balt'ier.' _Mary-Belle looked at him with something approaching indulgent amusement, _'In time to come call on me you shall, an' deals be brokered betwixt us den dat make dese broken bargains, as _ashes_ on de wind,' _she chuckled as if amused by some secret joke and petted the Phoenix. _

_Balthier felt like a man drowning in subtext he did not understand. He cautiously took a few unsteady, leaden, steps upon the road leading back to the town, his shoulders twitching in expectation of a knife to the kidneys that never came. _

_Ten feet from where Mary-Belle and her shadowed killers watched his every footfall Balthier turned back, a thought finally forming in his mind and reaching his lips._

'The Phoenix,' _he called back to Mary-Belle, _'What is it really?'

_Mary-Belle's laughter, dry and rasping, slithered over the night air to him, _'Ah m' laughing chile, you don' wan' to ever find out.'

_There came a cry like an eagle's keening and Balthier jerked his head up skywards only to see nothing but the dwindling stars upon a dawn ravaged sky. Of course, he thought ruefully, he should know that birds do not fly at night. He looked back up the slope of the hill to find no sign of Mary-Belle or any of her crew – the road completely deserted. _

_Balthier shivered in the pre-dawn breeze and shook his head as to clear it of foolish superstitions and fanciful notions of sentient mantle ornaments and phantom eagle cries. _

'Enough of this nonsense, I have better things to do.'

_Turning on his heels the youth Balthier took to running all the way back to the town. He did not look back, despite the creeping of the flesh of his scalp and the stinging of the cut upon his arm. Only when he approached the bronze and gold hulk of the Antarii and the dubious safety of Remus' domain did Balthier stop to glance up, just once, at the dawn pinked sky._

_A shooting star, fast as lightning and blazing across the sky, seared by his sights; he tracked the trailblazing light until it crashed down beyond the horizon behind the jagged mountains beyond Cahahouli Bay. _

_Balthier repressed another harsh shudder. He did not know why, but that one showering comet streaking by the staid and stationary stars, seemed a very bad omen to him indeed. _

* * *

**707 O.V: aboard the Ifrit en route to Landia**

'What did the queen do then?' Penelo whispered her question to Basch, horrified on behalf of a possibly fictional character from an old Landissian fable. 'Did she fight the tribe? Did she try to run away?'

'No,' Basch said, 'The Landis queen knew that she was guilty of neglecting her duty and thus surrendered unto the just punishment that her people had prescribed.'

'Burning does not seem very just to me,' Penelo muttered, 'She fell in love, she didn't hurt anyone.'

Basch arched an eyebrow ironically at this naïve and romantic argument but all he did was shrug in grating armour and continued his tale.

'On the night before the queen's execution the laughing man did appear to her as if from thin air.'

'Oh,' Penelo instantly brightened, 'And he rescued her, right?'

Basch shook his head almost reproachfully, 'Nothing of the sort. Instead the laughing man reminded the fallen queen that he had warned her that to follow him was to give up all she had. Still, he claimed that she knew enough of his tricks now that she could disappear upon the wind should she wish to, and ne'er need to burn.'

'The queen refused, did she not?' Larsa too was solemn as the story moved towards its sad conclusion.

'Aye,' Basch nodded once again, 'the laughing man, while capricious as the changing seasons, was not without pity. He told her that even as she burned if she reached for the sky he would come to her and carry her ashes upon the winds for ever more. She would have her wish of being one with the sky.'

'Did that happen?' Penelo asked, 'Did the laughing man keep his word?'

Basch sighed, 'It matters not, for things did not fall out as either expected. The wise men of the village suspected the queen might use her ill-gotten magicks to escape and erected a walled and covered chamber with which to build the pyre; as the fallen queen burned she was cut off from wind and sky.'

Penelo's eyes were wide, 'That's horrible. What happened then?'

Basch shrugged, 'The tale varies; some say that it was the rival king who collected the fallen queen's ashes and placed them inside the statuette he forged. Others say that in remorse the tribal elders of Landis crafted the Landis Phoenix to house their queen's ashes so that she might rise again in glory.'

Basch shrugged his armoured shoulders, 'I have also heard tell that it was the laughing man himself who fashioned the object as a curse on Landis, warning the men of my country that if they did not honour and keep the Phoenix as the treasure she was, he would see that the sun upon Landis would ne'er rise again.'

Larsa was thoughtful for a moment, 'There is some caveat to this tale, is there not; something pertinent to Balthier's situation?' He looked keenly at Basch who shifted his stance once again, nervously.

'Aye, the tale says that the queen in the Phoenix yearns not for freedom, vengeance, or even the sky, but for he who was the means of her downfall: the laughing man.'

Basch's grave regard washed over each person in the room, 'It is said that she seeks any man with the quicksilver spirit of the laughing man to be her consort.'

Penelo's lips formed a perfect 'o' and her eyes darted towards Fran, 'Oh…..oh, that's not good.'

Basch cleared his throat, 'In years gone by, dark days of Landis' long faded past, young men were sometimes sacrificed to the statue; their blood, youth, and spirit surrendered to appease the longing heart of the Phoenix.'

The silence which met Basch's words was complete; even Anna's pencil stilled its manic run across the page. Fran's ears twitched once, twice, thrice. Vaan leapt from his chair and turned to stare at her.

'We have to go back!' he jerked an arm in wide swung gesture. 'Balthier's in trouble and we have to save him.'

Larsa turned to face Basch, 'How would we go about such an action?' He asked keenly, 'If the Phoenix has fixed on Balthier as the embodiment of this laughing man, how do we break her hold on him?'

Basch pursed his lips and his eyes sought Fran above any other, 'I know not,' he shook his head ruefully, 'Until today I had thought the tale nothing but fancy.' He hesitated, eyes filled with warning, 'The tale states that the Phoenix is always death to any young man she comes to cherish. It is said that the knife is the only freedom from her yearning clutches.'

Fran met and held Basch's sorrowful eyes for three, four, and five heartbeats of time and then, without a word, she pivoted smooth as a dancer upon her heels, and left the room, Vaan and Penelo swift behind her.

'We'll take the Galbana,' Vaan jogged to keep up with her, 'I don't care what Basch says, we'll save Balthier.' Penelo chimed in her agreement but Fran did not speak a word.

She found herself wondering, had she condemned Balthier to his fate already by leaving him to fight alone?

* * *

**707 O.V: The moors of Mara – Landis**

Sweat, acidic and burning, fell into his squinted eyes and the stench of glossair oil and burning wiring filled his nostrils with acrid dark and billowing smoke. Balthier coughed and choked and covered his mouth and nose with his arm. Blind and staggering he stumbled away from the engine room.

He held the Deathbringer sword Fran had acquired for him many moons ago in one hand and stumbled through the main passageway of the Strahl, banging his shoulder against the wall as he struggled dizzily onward to the cockpit of his ship. The Phoenix screamed and screamed within his mind; driven to frenzy by his actions.

_No….my host, no! I forbid this; I forbid it! Do not do this, my mortal. Do not do this! To you I will return the Viera, but do not do this – I beg of you._

Lurid writhing tongues of phosphor orange and jagged black danced against the walls of the Strahl's main gangway, rising up with the thick and noxious smoke that ghosted up from the engine room. The scent of fire burned his sinuses even here in the cockpit.

Balthier lurched forward, stumbling for balance against the back of his pilot's chair. Nose gushing blood from both nostrils as the Phoenix dug her talons deep into the contours and recesses of his mind, he fumbled to activate the control console of the Strahl. He pulled the lever to supply power to the shattered engines and was almost brutally satisfied when the Strahl lurched in grounded dock and released a mechanical wail that filled the valley from end to end.

_No! Stop this, my mortal – you clip your wings!_

Balthier fell silently to his knees as the Phoenix struck back at him. Blinding points of agony ignited behind his eyes; stripping him of sight. He fell back onto the hard floor of the cockpit as waves of biting pain stole feeling from his limbs. He opened his mouth on a desperate breath of air as the Phoenix's ethereal talons clenched his ribs together and flattened his lungs. His heart, already haemorrhaging hope from both chambers, was now fit to burst with the pressure, but Balthier would not surrender.

He would fight against the eagle's cries even if he must destroy everything he lived for to do it.

Dragging himself to his feet he spat great gouts of dark blood from between his teeth to splatter over the lighted console of the Strahl's flight controls. He set the commands and once again the Strahl cried out in pain under the stabbing of his fingers. Commands set the Strahl disconnected left and right ventrilated wing support joints and Balthier heard the deep groan as the Strahl's wings, onto the shaggy moor, did fall.

The Strahl, one of his two only great loves, was now crippled by his own hand. She would not fly again any time soon.

Rearing back with a savage cry of his own, Balthier thrust the vicious tip of the Deathbringer down into the mesh of controls and levers of the console and watched the sparks fly, even as the Phoenix tried to squeeze the life from him. Again and again he slashed and stabbed and rendered his ship, his treasure, his _home, _to pieces.

He could not free himself of the Phoenix that had already cost him Fran. He could not fight her influence and he could not make her leave. Therefore, as it seemed to please her that he fly, he would rip his own wings apart to spite her. He would make sure that never again would he _ever_ fly.

As the flames from the engine room began to lick black scorches up and along the metal walls of the Strahl's main corridor and the smoke proved nigh near fatal Balthier half fell and half threw himself out of the exit hatch and onto the blade sharp grasses of the moor.

Kneeling in the tall grasses, which hissed like laughing serpents, he watched the red tipped thick and noxious smoke rise from the Strahl's shattered carcass towards the sun. He watched for a very long time; his blood dripping into the Landis soil. Balthier ignored the screaming of the Phoenix in her impudent rage as a single salt tear from his eye fell to mingle with his blood. It was the first tear he had ever shed; it might well be his last.

Somewhere, Balthier was sure, the stars were falling.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: 707 O.V; the Fort of Ennis Gywn-Hallam – the Purvama Ennis**

It had started to snow; here on the tiny Puvama of Ennis floating in permanent orbit over the Lantana mountains' of Landis, and Balthier halted his exhausting trudge up towards the dilapidated mountain fort of the long dead Landis king Gywn-Hallam of Ennis. He reached out a grazed knuckled hand to catch a large, wet, perfect snowflake.

He had always liked snow. He'd always thought the marvellous symmetry and interconnected perfection of each flake of ice forming blankets of transformative white was both a wonder of nature and a brilliant lesson for hume endeavour. He vaguely recalled that he once wrote a treatise about such for his final year paper in Akademy (he received top marks – naturally).

The winds slashing down the winding slope of the mountain were harsh, whipping about his body, cutting through the meagre protection of his dishevelled white shirt, like fingers raking over old bones. High above him, perched atop of the ancient honey worn stone of Fort Ennis' battlements, the Phoenix cawed her displeasure.

Balthier didn't particularly care to wonder what the purpose of coming to this ancient castle was; he frankly couldn't care less. He had no intention of acquiescing to the Phoenix' will but had no strength to fight her. Thus for the sake of a small respite of peace he was prepared to feign surrender for the time being. It was not as thought anything much mattered now, in any regard. He was defeated.

He looked up at the thick, orange dark sky, laden with snow. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes; little kisses of ice fell upon his skin. After the unmitigated misery of the last however many days he felt an odd sense of peace right now. His thoughts were sweetly shallow; his mind sluggish with a simple lack of purpose. He knew he was defeated – so what was left to think on?

The eagle screamed and he started forward again, bending into the wind, feet slipping and sliding on the frost slicked and uneven ground. In the space of twenty minutes he lost his footing and fell three times; tiny pieces of grit ground into the raw and opened flesh of his hands as he scrambled for purchase to stop himself tumbling end over end off the side of the mountain. He smacked his head on a rock and slammed into the gnarled stump of a dead tree poking out of the mountainside.

For no discernable reason Balthier began to laugh as he picked himself up and started climbing again. He'd moved beyond indignity, physical exhaustion, or the ephemeral qualities of pain. He felt oddly weightless inside the cage of his flesh. He was as calm and focused as he had been in the Bahamut's engine room.

He looked up through the blizzard; fort Ennis was a fine piece of structural engineering; a genuine castle in the sky. The outer walls of the fortress were several feet thick from base to battlement and rose flawlessly from the very rock of the mountainside. Most of the outer walls were still standing, which was testament to the solidity of their construction. The interior of the fortress had faired less well, but even so the inner fort still stood stolidly proud upon its craggy bailey.

Balthier's lips quivered in bone dry amusement, yes indeed, fort Ennis would prove to be sufficiently dramatic as a backdrop for this capitulation; the leading man could not want for a better backdrop for his own surrender.

He looked down past the narrow path cut into the shelf of the mountain, down and down again until he could see Landis far below the purvama. A river, whose name he did not know, snaked through the evergreen strewn valley he could just see through the biting blizzard; the rest of Ivalice seemed very far away from Balthier right now.

The eagle screamed once more, unimpressed with his dallying. Balthier chuckled, shook himself, and started marching up the mountain like a lone Archadian invader laying sedate siege to this great Landissian monument to times gone by.

Thus it was that Balthier trudged upwards and onwards towards his own defeat and his regrets were his only solace.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Moors of Mara – Landis **

'No,' reflexively Penelo reached out blindly to clasp at Fran's arm, her other hand covering her mouth, 'No…..the Strahl…no.'

Vaan was in motion, running across the whispering grasses of the moor. The agile youth leapt and bounded over the troughs and hillocks pitting the verdant valley, headed unerringly towards the smoking shell of the Strahl.

Fran followed at more sedate rate; she knew that haste would do no good. What was could not be changed and if Balthier was within the Strahl's wreck then he was past her aid – if he was not within then running was still pointless. Penelo obviously did not share Fran's perspective and she broke away to run after Vaan who had disappeared inside the open hatch of the Strahl.

By the time Fran had reached the Strahl, nose twitching at the astringent, burning scent of long spent engine fires, her eyes roving over each scorch mark upon the Strahl's glorious exterior paintwork, Vaan had already leapt out of the Strahl to meet her.

'There's no one in there.' He told her unnecessarily. 'The Strahl…' Vaan swallowed hard, 'The control consoles are shattered, the engines are broken, wirings been torn out from wall relays.'

Fran nodded, she did not need to see for herself to know what had been done and why. 'He has torn his wings.'

Fran continued forward and up the ramp to the Strahl's interior. She did not need to see, but see with her own eyes she would. The painful aroma of despair and rage hit her senses like a wave of Marlboro breath. Fran closed her eyes for a moment, ears quivering and nose twitching. For a moment she fancied that the Strahl spoke to her; accused Fran of abandonment.

'Fran,' Penelo's voice was clogged with tears, 'Fran do you suppose Balthier was attacked or…'

Fran shook her hair behind her back, 'Attack there was, but it came from one quarter only. This was an attack from within. The leading man wages war upon himself.'

Swiftly she turned from the desperate ruin of the main cabin, from the spilled chocobo down spilling from the rent tears in the pilot's chair, the blade wounds spitting electric blood into the air from the control consoles, and instead moved swiftly into the rear of the Strahl.

Fran's own sleeping quarters were untouched, an oasis of ordered tranquillity in a barren desert of destruction. Fran did not waste time in her own cabin and instead moved on to Balthier's ruined sanctum. The scent of his sorrow, his hopelessness and broken defiance almost turned her stomach as she stepped into the devastation. Sparing no thought nor long glances for the litter of debris scattered hither and thither upon the floor Fran wrenched open Balthier's weapon closet.

For Vaan and Penelo, clustered together in the threshold of Balthier's quarters, hesitating to enter as if in respect for the wishes of the absent captain, it was Fran's quick, involuntary intake of breath that truly scared them; Fran did not gasp and Balthier did not fail. If these laws absolute could crumble what did it mean for the two of them?

'It is gone,' Fran snapped shut the oaken doors of the weapon closet, affording the two humes only the briefest glimpse inside to rows of wall mounted guns and rifles in pristine condition. 'He has taken Deathbringer.'

Fran moved forward again and had the two humes not leapt apart in haste she may well have walked right through them as she left the cabin.

Balthier was a marksman. Guns were his weapon of preference; more than that the gun was as apt a weapon for Balthier's nature as the bow was for Viera Wood Warders. A gun was a weapon for the long distance; it required skill to aim and calibrate, and it could, in the right hands, penetrate any defences where knives and clubs would leave nary a scratch. The gun was the weapon of a man who takes no pleasure in violence but will kill when he must.

Balthier was a marksman; he picked his targets with care, he took aim, and he never missed his shot.

The Judiciary had tried to make a swordsman of him and he had loathed it. Under Fran's tutelage he had learned to handle poles competently, as they were a weapon that complimented his height and build. He could handle a great bow and a cross bow, when he had to, but there was only one sword he would ever wield.

The Deathbringer sword; a sword Fran herself had gifted to him. A sword with only one purpose and one desire; so dark was its making, so vast its hunger for the blood of mortals. It was a sword to bring death instantly upon any who tasted its ill-fashioned steel.

'Fran – where are we going?'

Vaan had managed to catch up with her as Fran's long legs carried her, moving like the wind made flesh, over the undulating grasslands of the moors. The boy was panting and red cheeked; he did not have Balthier's height and could not match pace with her. Penelo, shorter still, lagged even further behind.

'To the skies,' Fran told him shortly, 'Phoenix is sky but sky is not Phoenix. That she who was of mortal birth would claim ownership of one whose life gives homage to sky will not be met with pleasure.'

Fran reached Vaan and Penelo's small, battered and much for-used airship, named Galbana, but the children. She looked up at the dark and foreboding clouds gathering above them as the first heavy drops of rain began to descend.

'Look you how sky weeps,' Fran gestured to the clouds, 'we fly and in sky's true embrace we shall find course to lead us to Balthier.'

'Right,' Vaan nodded grimly, pink and sweaty faced running up the ramp ahead of her to start his ships engines. He could not comprehend, this short-lived mortal with his pure and untainted soul, what her words truly meant. Fran found herself cherishing his simplicity even as she silently cursed him for it. This was not her partner and the ship she rode in was not the Strahl.

As a bolt of rage shined lightning seared the wide expanse of roiling sky above the moors Fran looked back to the Strahl, soothed and buffeted in the falling rain, black and ugly smoke purified by the sky's tears into billowing white.

It was not with easy heart that she turned her back on the vessel that was to her the only home she had possessed in over fifty years of self-imposed exile, but leave her she did. The Strahl was but tempered steel and hume mechanism without the living breathing soul that gave her life – just as Fran, without her partner, was less than a leaf falling from a tree.

Once she had been Fran alone and resigned to her fate, then she had been Fran of the sky and the Strahl. An alchemy wrought in one hume man-child's desperation to be something of his own making, had made of Fran something winged and strong. She did not wish to be merely Fran alone again.

The Galbana rose up into the eye of the storm and as Fran watched the two hume children struggle to pilot their ship through the sky's furious tempest, Fran dug her fingernails into the arm rests of the passenger chair and listened to the wailing wind and the lashing rain.

The sky is falling, Fran thought, and he will fall with it.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Fort of Gywn-Hallam – the purvama Ennis**

'Well now that I am here,' Balthier sucked in a sharp breath as he ascended the last of the thousand stone steps leading to the roofless central chamber, once great Gywn-Hallam's throne room, 'perhaps you will deign to tell me why I am here?'

The Phoenix did not answer him. In fact Balthier had not heard her harrying screams in his ears for some many moments. In the respite from her assaults upon his senses Balthier took the time to look about him.

Balthier had been to many spectacular places. He had seen beauty of every description, from the profane, dark beauty of destruction wrought upon Nabudis to the soulless aesthetics of Archades Imperial sky gardens. He had seen the beauty of hume endeavour in the mastery of glossair and he had seen the raw majesty of nature rolled out underneath his wings as he flew over terrain as diverse and varied as he could ever want to see.

The fort of Ennis was something different. This was not the self-deluding grandeur of the empire trying to make their even the lowest hovels into monuments that would stand in defiance to the rigours of time. Nor was it the humbling, decayed loveliness of the Sochen Palace: testament to what time's boundless majesty would eventually bring down upon Archadia's head.

No, instead the slimy fungal slicked walls of this ancient, derelict castle had a strange beauty Balthier could not quite name. Walking his bloody fingers over the faint ghosts of painted murals still just visible underneath the growth of phosphor luminous and pungent fungus, Balthier wandered around the outer perimeter of the square chamber as the snow falling above him turned from sleet to rain.

In this chamber whose roof was long gone and one wall had fallen down long ago into the abyss of the mountains edge, thus lending the chamber an unintentionally magnificent panoramic view of the Lantana mountains' striking like spears up against the canopy of the sky from Landis down below, stood one sturdy tree.

Balthier was at a loss to imagine how such a tree came to sprout up right in the middle of what had once been the seat of Landis' royal dynastic power. The tree, whose wide leaf-less branches stretched outward in all directions, hooked finger-like twigs striking out in accusation left, right and centre, was so prosaically out of place that somehow it seemed almost magickal to Balthier's eyes.

The rain fell in sheets and at this altitude the precipitation could be nothing but cold. Balthier inevitably came to take shelter under the wide reaching boughs of the ancient, gnarled tree. He slumped gracelessly to sit with his back to the rough bark trunk and looked out at the purplish-grey fringe of the Lantana mountains' he could just see straining for the sky.

Above his head an unnatural darkness, greater even than the thunderous clouds cycling above, dropped down upon him; the Phoenix spread her wings wide, touching the length and breadth of the sky, or so it seemed.

Balthier closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the Phoenix's possessive spirit invade his mind once again. At his side, strung to his belt pouch at his hip, the Deathbringer rode in her scabbard. Balthier curled his hand around her leather wrapped hilt.

_Was there no other way?_

Like a flint striking a spark Balthier's eyes flew open in surprise. He jumped to his feet, staring around him wildly. He must be mad indeed, for it seemed to him that he had heard his own voice upon the rain tossed air.

_Fool of a pirate – hadn't you best be off?_

'Who's there?' Balthier turned in a tight circle wrenching the Deathbringer from her scabbard at his hip. The cursed blade, steeped in dark magicks, seemed to hum with pleasure as she tasted the air of this melancholy place.

_I had such hopes, but you ran and ran and they with you…._

Balthier tasted copper on the tip of his tongue as his lips pursed and a muscle in his clenched jaw twitched. He turned around, backing away from the far-reaching tree and towards the broken wall at the edge of the cliff. He stared up at the dark wraith form of a massive eagle perched atop the tree.

'Do not seek to taunt me with my father,' Balthier spat, taking up his sword.

The Phoenix's wings were black as bonfire smoke and flared red at the wing tips, bright as pyre fires. She regarded him with eyes as merciless as hellfire.

_Hadn't you best be off? That's what you do, isn't it? You fly. _

Balthier tasted blood as his teeth ground together in helpless fury. The mockery of Fran's voice lit a fury inside him that hurt like a knife to the guts. He turned away, and his fingers gripped the hilt of the Deathbringer spasmodically.

_Fool of a pirate. What are you if not mine?_

Balthier could smell the sickening scent of burning meat. He could hear the wet crackle and pop of fat melting and skin flaking away under the lick of golden flame. He dropped to his knees, Deathbringer falling from suddenly slack fingers. His palms smacked down hard against cold, wet stone. He retched and fought for breath. He was burning alive; he could feel it.

_Little man; lost little boy; you ran away to the sky. You ran away from your failures but they found you all the same. Fool of a pirate; you couldn't save him. _

Balthier gasped, hands going to his throat as sparks of cruel fire crawled down his throat and set the dry kindling of his soul to flame. His lungs filled with choking smoke and his heart to palpitations must painful stuttered. Blindly he reached for the Deathbringer with fingers losing feeling. The Phoenix burned like the fires of damnation before him.

_I had such high hopes. _

'Enough!' Balthier found his feet, slashing the blade of Deathbringer wildly across the rain sobbing air, 'Enough - Enough with his voice!'

_Fool of a pirate. You so wanted to be right; you thought he'd notice…..but he never did. You thought you mattered even after you ran. Poor, vain fool. All you wanted was to go home. _

Balthier staggered back, reeling away from the words. A scorching wave of heat pushed against him, forcing him further back as the Phoenix negligently flapped her wings.

_You speak of freedom, freedom of your own will, but you have none. Scared little boy, what is it that you believe in? So frightened of your father's dreams were you that you ran and ran and ran again. Tell me, little mortal man, what is it that you believe in?_

'Fran,' it was a whisper on the air, a whisper escaping madness as Balthier stumbled closer and closer to the cliff face. The Phoenix's wings flared outward, touching the blackened sky with swathes of angry fire.

_A Viera fallen: a broken vessel. You cling to her do you, little man? Cling to the Viera because while she is broken, you are empty. Empty as the air; you are light as a feather beneath your bluster. The sky take you, for no other will. _

Balthier shuddered. Phantom embers and hot ashes bit at his skin and the wind at his back was especially cold. 'Stop it,' he whispered.

_Such high hopes for you: so very clever, are you not, little man? Prodigal child, such hopes for you. Squandered now, broken by a fool's gamble. Did you really think he'd listen? Why, when he never heard a word you spoke before?_

Balthier gasped, his right knee buckled and he half fell, landing heavily upon the broken floor of this fallen castle in the sky. 'I was right,' he snarled breathlessly, 'I was right to leave him……he gave me no choice!'

_Liar; you _chose _to leave. You chose to run. Run and pretend to be fighting. Run and pretend to be making a stand. Run because for all those high hopes you were e'er but a disappointment. _

Balthier jerked his head up. His chest screamed; he clutched at his torn and filthy shirt. It felt as if he was collapsing in on himself, as if suddenly, he had been rendered hollow, filled with nothing more substantial than air. He could not breathe and the smell of the pyre was ever close.

'I am not….' Balthier coughed, he choked, 'I am not a disappointment. I am everything I want to be.'

_Fool of a pirate. You are nothing. A waft of air, insubstantial and inconstant; you are made o' naught and make naught o' good. Prodigal son: pride of Archades, tell me, what is it that you live for?_

Balthier struggled to rise, struggled to stand in the face of the Phoenix's smoke filled inferno. He could hear the chitter of the fagots on the pyre as they burned. The world was garnet red as the blood thundering in his ears. He could taste ashes on his tongue. He could smell the flesh burning.

'I am……I play…..' the words would not come. He fell back to his knees smoke blind. The rain striking upon his bowed back struck like pellets of boiling oil, sizzling as they touched his burning flesh. He was burning alive from the inside out.

_You play? You play at living. You play at hiding your fear; coward that you are. Leading man are you? What is it that you lead in; failure? Running away? When you die, who will mourn you, mortal child; what name upon your tombstone shall be carven? _

Balthier shuddered and could not lift his head from the cold wet stone. Helplessly he lifted his hands to his head and, like a child, shoved his fingers into his ears. Lying on the stone he curled in on himself, a vagabond man, dressed in rags and lying on the broken floor of a fallen castle, the sky weeping down on him.

'Enough,' he whispered, 'enough; I know who I am.'

_Failure, fool; It was all for him. Everything, you did it all for him. You wanted him to see you. You wanted to make him listen; but you were never enough to make him listen, Ffamran. You were never good enough, never worthy. You failed. You failed and he died. _

'Shut up!' Blind and sobbing, eyes wild and unseeing, Balthier leapt to his feet. 'Ffamran is not my name!' He screamed into the flames. 'I am not him; I am not a failure.'

_Fool of a pirate. Not a failure, no, the pirate Balthier does not fail, for he never tries. Ffamran was a failed son, but what is the pirate Balthier; a leech, a parasite? Flying from one place to another ever aimless, indulging his crapulence, his empty egotism? Stealing, pilfering, giving nothing in return; this is what you have made of yourself. Better to be Ffamran the failure, but you have not the guts for that. _

Balthier shook his head, curled on the floor like a filthy churl, 'Bahamut……I saved Rabanastre…..I stopped my father's madness.'

_Liar; nothing but a puppet were you, leaping to his side with such eagerness. You were but a player in his drama; disregarded pawn in games of greater men. Yet greatness you could have claimed, had you not run away. Run from those who would have stood your friends, for fear of their expectations; always the failure, little lonely man, running away to the sky all over again. _

Twenty-three years and nine months. In all those years of life the man who called himself Balthier had never cried. As a babe his wails were accompanied by eyes dry as tinder, as a child he would face pain without a whimper. His father would say, look you on my boy, now there is a boy who will remake Ivalice with his courage.

_Such high hopes……._

Twenty-three years and nine months it has taken but now, finally, Balthier cries. Lying prone on filthy cold stone, breath hot as a furnace escaping torched lungs in rasping gasps, arms flung up to protect his shame, the tears that never before fell, fall now. The sky continues to fall down around him; wind and rain wailing as he sobs.

Above it all, watching with eyes dark as flaming embers, the Phoenix drinks in his pain, smog dark wings unfurled to blanket the sky and the sparks fall like stars of fire.

_Fool of a pirate, _the Phoenix cooed into his ear, into the gutted, burned out ruin of an already broken soul, _Hadn't you best be off?_

Balthier rose to his feet; he could not breathe and he could not see. He could taste only ashes and regret on his tongue. He could hear only the Phoenix in his ears. Numbly he reached for the Deathbringer.

_Fool of a pirate. Such hopes, but you ran, and they with you. _

What was he, really, if not servitor of the cruel and hateful sky? What was he but an empty vessel; a man too afraid to live as even the lowest of men could do. What a contemptible wretch he was. A man too afraid to try, lest he fail all over again; a man who had betrayed himself a thousand times over for no more than an airship and the promise of running away.

Shuffling like an old man Balthier moved to the cliff edge. He swayed in the stiff wind. He looked down through his tears to the solid land far below the purvama; all Ivalice spread before him. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of the Deathbringer.

_Hadn't you best be off? That's what you do, isn't it? You run away._

Balthier closed his eyes. He took the Deathbringer in both hands, held in reverse grip so that the tip of the blade could be angled and rested against his diaphragm. He had failed Fran. He had promised her entertainment and diversion but he had proven unworthy and she had left him. He was alone. He was alone with his failure and the wide and empty sky.

The rain continued to fall and at his back he could feel the vengeful heat of the Phoenix; with his toes poking over the broken edge of the mountainside Balthier opened his eyes once more. He could at least be this brave, in a life time of cowardice.

The mountains of Landis looked so very far away as Balthier looked out across the expanse of empty air. He knew that truthfully, not so very far away, on the other side of those mountains, Landia teemed with life below him; a city under occupation, a city striving for emancipation. For the first time ever, Balthier wondered what it might be like to live an honest existence. To tie oneself down to one place, one land, and fight for what little one could claim his own.

What if Ffamran had found courage to speak out, all those years ago? What if Ffamran had gone to a good man like Zargabaath and spoken plainly of his father's malady – would Nabudis have been averted? Would those vicious, costly wars for Nethicite and stones have still occurred, without Doctor Cid whispering poison into Vayne's greedy ear? Could his father have yet been saved if Ffamran had found the courage to try instead of running away?

Balthier looked down, and down, to the land below. The sky he had cleaved to was no salvation, but merely a bitter fallacy. Look, see? It was just emptiness, a vast and useless void between here and below. He had been a fool to look for solace and reason in this hateful void.

Balthier took one deep breath of that void and the tip of the hungry Deathbringer bit into his flesh; eager to dig deeper. Balthier's hands tight upon the hilt did not waver nor shake as he pulled the sword back and away a few inches. His eyes were dry once more as he looked out upon a dark and sodden horizon, the Phoenix pyre at his back, harsh and inescapable……

_Hadn't you best be off?_

……and Balthier plunged the sword up and under his diaphragm and through the soft cavity of his body, shoving the blade unerringly upwards on a course to find his weak and traitorous heart. His spine arched, his knees gave in and the weight of his own body falling in on itself drove the hungry Deathbringer faster, deeper, into the fragile meat of the pirate's heart.

_Fool of a pirate._

The Phoenix screamed her triumph and launched like a comet of dark fire into the air. Balthier fell from the purvama; fell through the void and downward, ever downward, towards Ivalice, and the sky did not catch him.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: 707 O.V: Falls of the Clathbow – Lantana mountains: Landis**

Fran knew when he fell; she heard the scream of the sky. She thought she heard him whisper farewell. Something beyond the sky and wind in the trees told her where to find him and that voice that was not a voice also told her it was too late.

He was already gone.

The sun rode high above the horizon by the time Fran, Vaan, and Penelo set down in the Galbana and trekked through the rocky clefts of the Lantana mountains' to the Clathbow falls.

He was white as snow on a bed of emerald green.

The clearing by the falls was enclosed in rock and sheltered from the elements. Small white flowers turned their yellow faces to the sun as it spilled down like a lone spotlight upon the fallen leading man.

'No,' it was Vaan who broke the drama of the scene and entered the stage without invitation. The apprentice to his reluctant master's side did dash, though haste was not needed now.

Penelo hurried after, lithe figure swathed in healing magicks, whispering incantations with a hoarse and choked throat. Fran was last to mount the stage; last to join the drama.

He was always so very fragile; possessed of a spirit of fire and air that burned and flickered boldly like a candle in a gale.

_Allow me to extend an invitation to you, dear Fran, and offer you the chance to share in mine own ambitions._

Viera in exile lose the ear of the Wood; or so it is told to Golmore's chosen daughters. Leave the shelter of the Wood and lose oneself, or so it is said. Choose exile and become deaf as a hume, but less even than they, for humes have never known the voice of the Wood, or walked the splendour of the Green Way.

'What happened to him – Penelo why isn't he healing?'

'I don't know Vaan; I'm doing my best. Gods look at this wound in his chest – it goes right through him!'

To be Viera no longer, and less than hume, that is the fate Fran chose for herself, when Golmore's complacency became a yoke to heavy for her to bear, and ignorance demanded proved too great a price for one with her many, many, questions.

Jote said unto Fran when she resolved to make of herself a willing exile over five decades past: leave sister and you will evermore be lost; leave sister and be heretic and betrayer, deafened by your own pride. Fran had said: Viera begin in the Wood but that need not be their end. Mrjn had said, do not leave me sister. Fran had said: I must.

_You could be, perhaps, the first ever Viera sky pirate._

Over fifty years have past and Fran, though she speaks not a word of it, has learned the truth of Viera in exile. Fifty years hence and it is not silence that Fran suffers, but instead cacophony. The fate of the Viera in exile is not to be stricken mute, to know only the silence of emptiness, but instead to be deafened by the volume of life and abundance beyond Golmore's cloistered canopy.

'He must….he must have fallen, from that purvama up there, I mean. How else could he have ended up here, without an airship; right?'

'Don't be foolish Vaan – just help me with the Curaja, alright?'

'No, Penelo listen: if he fell from the purvama he's protected, right? It's a law of magick, just like Fran said: people who fall from purvama's can't die from it.'

Fran would speak with regret for the loss of Eruyt if she could be enticed to speak on it at all, but to do so would be to lie. Fran had expected despair when she left Golmore but instead she had found the world. Fran has come to realise that she does not regret her choice, and for this she is ever twisting in guilt. Fran lives in guilt because she does not hark to the lost Green Way. She does not miss the voice of the Golmore when the ways of humes offer so much intrigue and new knowledge.

_I think that you are in need of a diversion to speed along your time Fran, while you are sundered from your Viera wood._

Fran is heretic indeed, she knows this, and the guilt burns her, for most days she does not truly care.

_It would be my honour and privilege to provide you with such diversions._

On this day, however, as a cold sun rests in judgement over the jagged points of granite mountains laced with snow, Fran feels as if she has finally fallen under the doom of the Viera in exile.

She hears only silence where once there was constant noise. The small creatures in the long grasses surely creep still from burrow to burrow, but she cannot hear them. She cannot hear the hissing slither of the grasses or the music of the fast rushing river running off from the falls and bloated with snow melt. Her senses are dulled; upon Ivalice falls a pall of grey; seeping colour and vibrancy from the surroundings. Life ebbs and fades, its lustre diminished, and for the first time Fran feels old in her bones.

He was always so very fragile. He always burned too bright and too quickly. She should have done more to fortify him – she who could always hear his nightmares in the dead of night.

The sky and the wind had led Fran to him, here to the pebbled banks of a mountain river where the thunder of a waterfall crashing upon jagged rocks fails to make a sound, but it is too little too late and Fran knows this. Ivalice is a colder place today, Fran thinks.

The spray from the crashing waters of the fall holds rainbows in thrall as it rises like mist to dapple the sky many feet in the air. There are wild herbs and mint growing amid the snow white flowers dotting the emerald green grasses. A patch work quilt of fragrance and quiet beauty pillows his head; mint and thyme scent the air and it all matters not at all.

The fallen star is so very pale with his inner light extinguished.

_Mark my words, we shall be the stuff legends are made of. _

She thinks she can hear him still, either in the recesses of her memory or somewhere from beyond the vale. She hears his phantom when all Ivalice has fallen to silence around her.

_Allow me to extend an invitation to you, dear Fran, and offer you the chance to share in mine own ambitions. You could be, perhaps, the first ever Viera sky pirate._

His body is intact. He has not been dashed to bloody ruin upon the rocks and hard stone as he crashed down to Ivalice. Fran knew already that he had taken a great fall, before e're she saw him lying here. She always knew that such a fall was in his fate, and had been for years. He is a man to ascend great heights and plunge to depths unfathomed. It has ever been his way – but why did she not seek to add more balance to his vibrancy, and steady him on his path?

He looks peaceful as he lies on his side, eyes heavy-lidded and sightless, almost closed, and his clever features smoothed of all animation. Such peace hurts her heart to see; it is not his nature to be tranquil. He is of air and fire and lightning; he is flash and bang and swiftness. This stillness becomes him not at all.

_I think that you are in need of a diversion to speed along your time Fran, while you are sundered from your Viera wood. It would be my honour and privilege to provide you with such diversions._

She lifts him up and pulls him from the waters edge and further up the flowered bank; the scent of mint clings to him mingling with the sharp tang of blood congealing from his vicious chest wound. His heart is broken, as it has been since his father died. He is so silent now and she wants his noise; she wants the low thrumming murmur of his complaints. She wants the thunder rumble of his ire, the shatter-glass staccato of his impatience and the rough velvet of his joy.

_Partners then? We shall be legends. _

The hume children try to touch him still. They try to drench him in their grief and Fran lashes out at them. She does not want their taint upon him. She wants to remember what he smells like before he smells of naught but death and carrion.

'A purvama,' the hume male child is chattering on but Fran does not want to hear his voice; a voice that holds none of the nuance, the depths of dark humour, wry joy, and poison laced regret, that has formed the melody of her life for these scant few, happy years. 'He fell from a purvama. Fran he _fell from a purvama_.'

The hume pup wants her attention. He capers about in agitated fashion as Fran lifts her partner so that she can cradle him as hume women cradle their infants in their arms. She breathes in the scent of him, nose pressed to the top of his head. He smells of hume flesh and blood. He smells of crushed mint and river silt. He smells of blood and the lingering, cold and clammy, hint of despair. He does not smell of death.

'Fran!'

The hume boy drops to his knees directly before, his body crushing the fragrant herbs and sending waves of scent up and around them in a pungent cloud. 'Fran listen – Balthier, he fell from that purvama up there, right?' The boy points upward to the distant shadow of the floating rock Fran will not look to, the shadow of which lingers over this secluded cove.

'Don't you remember, last year, when we all went to the Phon Coast? We saw that man who'd lost his memory, and the other man said he'd fallen off a purvama, remember?'

Vaan's eyes are intense, burning bright. 'Fran, you told us then that there was a greater law of magick that meant that no one who falls off a purvama dies. They lose their memory, but they don't die: _from purvama fall and lose oneself but life remain to you_. That's what you told us.'

'Heart wound; it beats not.' Fran is too numb to feel surprise as she speaks, yet her nose is telling her: Balthier does not smell of death.

Vaan shakes his head, almost angrily. 'He fell off the purvama – he can't be dead.' The words are fierce, almost as if the boy would command the laws of Ivalice, fate, destiny, and magick all, to fall into an order that he sees fit.

'Please Fran; let's try and heal him, please?' Penelo, who has spent a river of tears already, slumped in the flowers and the mint, approaches cautiously, but there is healing glow already captured in her cupped palms.

'Deathbringer doesn't always work; it doesn't _always_ kill straight away.'

The girl too speaks as if she would make her words the law of the land, 'Maybe he was still alive when he fell, and the purvama magick stopped the wound from killing him? That could work, couldn't it?'

Fran shakes her head and tendrils of her hair brush over his face. He does not twitch and he does not react. His chest does not rise and his heart does not beat – how can it be therefore that he does not smell of death, but merely of sorrow?

The humes do not wait for her assent, or else take her silence as tacit approval, and begin casting Raise and Curaja. The magick smells of Mist and the children's own hope; it burns Fran. She watches the green-white light limn over the contours of his body. She watches it dance over his pallid flesh. She watches it fail.

_You are in need of a diversion. _

Fran is of Golmore and Golmore is a dark place of life and death. The fallen feed the new growth of the jungle and the Wood's path spreads deep under the darkling soil rooted in the bones of countless creatures dead and devoured. Golmore gives succour to her children and feeds from the marrow of their bones in turn. Fran knows of death and its place in life. She knows that it was ever and always his destiny to die and hers to watch him fall.

_Allow me to extend an invitation to you, dear Fran, and offer you the chance to share in mine own ambitions._

Fran knows all this, knows well the staid cycle of life and death, but it pleases her not.

The children cast and cast and cast again. Blunt and clumsy fingers pad the angry wound upon his chest with tufts of Phoenix down and Fran frowns. She likes it not that such a thing be used. It is cruel irony, that. She sweeps the tufts away and instead places her large, clawed, hand over the bluish, puckered and sucking wound over his sternum.

_Mark my words, you and I shall be the stuff legends are made of._

He does not smell of death, and humes do not walk paths of Wood and Green Way, why for then, should he be bowed by the Wood's laws? Humes live in defiance of their own demise and none more so than he; her partner hume is a creature of freedom not submission. He does not smell of death. He is wasted in this silence.

_I am supremely confident that I can pull off any caper, because I have something no other pirate has ever had. You Fran; I have you._

Fran's hand presses against his chest. His blood has matted in the sparse and fine stripe of hair running down his chest to his abdomen; it is cold and sticky as river silt. It coats her palm, clinging and thick. Fran casts her own spell; life through her body to his she sends.

_The stuff legends are made of; share in mine own ambitions._

Life and magick dances over his frame. It crashes over him from three quarters but the strongest channel is the one from Fran to him. The Wood says he is dead; let his flesh feed our growth. The air kissing her cheeks and playing through her hair sings a mourning dirge for a fallen acolyte, but the hume children say: what if, what if? And Fran's nose says: he does not smell of death.

_Sundered from the Wood, yet Viera need not end there. _

The magick rises and the magick fails; over and over like the cycle of the season and the passing of the years. Death and renewal, death and renewal: the anthem of the Wood and the Green Way. The Wood grows, and she fades away.

_Viera begin in the Wood but it is not the only path they may choose._

The Viera are dying; a secret that is ne'er spoken of, yet there have been no daughters of Golmore born in over seventy years. Death, but no renewal. Cleave to me and die with me, says Golmore to her daughters. The hume way is not our way, and ne'er can the twain be joined nor crossed; there will be no meeting at the crossroads of the ways for you my daughters, says the Wood.

_Allow me to extend an invitation to you, dear Fran, and offer you the chance to share in mine own ambitions._

There are no male Viera, and never have there been. Once in times of yore the hume males, warriors and braves, would come on bended knee to wise and ageless Viera. They would abide by the ruling of the mother Wood and her grave and knowing daughters willingly, and Viera would take of the best of these hume braves so that more daughters for the Wood would come. It was the way of the crossroads; the once great meeting of the ways of Wood and hume.

But now the Wood that is old and shrinking bitter says to her daughters: the humes are not for you, my children; there will be no meeting of the ways for you. The Wood breaks her own cycle for there is death now, and abundant, but there is no renewal. The hume braves are allowed to die in droves upon Ivalice's greater paths, like fruit left to rot on vines, and the Viera are left to wither, barren and obedient, or insubordinate and denied, cloistered in dark decay.

Golmore says: cleave to me and die my daughters, but Fran said: Viera begin in the Wood but need not end there. Fran said give me the world and I shall find my own way.

Fran thinks now, with this hume brave so still in her arms: I have been looking for the ancient crossroads all along. Fran thinks, heretic I am, and Golmore is not the only Wood. I have seen forests in distant climes to dwarf Golmore ten fold and more; I have seen flowers bloom in the chambers of Archadia's mechanical heart. I have walked upon destiny's path and turned her tides; I have cleaved to no Wood or Way but set my own course through history's flow.

I am Fran, she thinks. I have been Fran alone and bowed. I have been Fran within the many and the few. I have been Fran once of the Wood but no longer so. I am Fran today and shall be so tomorrow. I am Fran and I say: he does not smell of death.

_Partners then; a share in mine own ambitions; for I have you, dear Fran. _

Fran says: 'From purvama fall and lose oneself, but life remain to you,' and she thinks if Humes can turn Ivalice to their mastery, why for cannot Fran alter the flow of fate for this one, lone hume? He does not smell of death and wasted in the silence he would be.

'The law of Ivalice is too great a rule for you to throw down alone, Balthier.' Fran calls again upon the magick and the Mist, 'A heart born to beat should beat its fill; this stillness is not for you. It is not yet time to be off with you, sky pirate.'

_It would be my honour and privilege to speed along your time, dear Fran._

The hume children have no magick left and the girl sobs into the chest of the boy who looks up towards the dark shadow of the purvama as if betrayed. His jaw works like a Lobo gnawing a bone, but for once he is silent. Fran's hand pressed down upon a still chest grows hot and her palm itches.

The Wood craves his death and the wind wails uselessly and so Fran will be not of Wood or air, for neither can aid her in this time of much need. Fran looks up at the bold thunder of the waterfall and the fast and constant flow of the river gouging a path through ancient mountain stone. She looks up further, not to the dark hanging purvama, but instead to the jagged toothed fringe of the Lantana mountains' with their genteel caps of snow.

There is molten fire in the heart of those peaks, Fran knows this. There is strength impregnable in the granite summits. Wood fails but mountains endure. There is such motion and passion running through the veins of Ivalice. Fran knows this, but narrow-minded child of Wood was she that she has ignored the greater ways of Ivalice, in favour of poor teachings.

Fran's ears twitch: she hears the pulse. She hears the heartbeat of the mountains and she feels it ripple through the ground beneath her. She hears it in the liquid rush of the river and the crash of the waterfall. It is deep and slow and ponderous, but power it has. Ivalice breathes and teems with life; there is greater will than Wood alone. There is voice to hear even in Wood's vengeful silence.

_Viera need not end with the Wood; the crossroads endure to be found anew. _

Fran suspects she has found the crossroads where ancient Viera would leave Wood's shelter and walk among the humes. She suspects that there is never an end until there is an end; Golmore is wrong and Fran, though not right, is far from exile true.

_The stuff of legends: partners then? _

'This is poor show, pirate.' She tells him and believes that he will hear her still, if she wills it so. 'The diversion amuses me not.'

Fran's palm is hot, pressed against his chest; blood burns like lava and scalds her flesh. The Mist and magick is of the air; inconstant and failing. The Wood grants no assistance to she who would refuse to die in ignorance of choice, but Fran is of neither air nor Wood today. Fran of the mountains will be; she will be of granite and fire where once she was fallen kindling in the Wood and flotsam upon the winds.

'You do not fly to lands beyond the mortal pall, Balthier, not on this day nor the morrow.' Fran tells him and believes that he can always hear her; just as she hears him still, even in this deathly silence. 'For as you once commanded I hold on still to your comet tail, and I am of the mountains now, and the mountains cannot be moved.'

There is heat building and building between her palm and his flesh. She smells copper fire mingling with cool mint. She tastes the quickening of magick far greater than Mist in the air. She holds on to him, as once on Pharos when she would fall, he bid her to do.

'He's bleeding!'

Vaan is shouting as a torrent of heat looses like a river burst her banks and spills across Fran's arm as she holds him to her. Her palm is slick and there is pressure against her hand; she holds back the lava from his depths with just her palm. Heart's blood in his veins should flow, not be loose upon the air.

The hume children fuss and dither; tufts of Phoenix down flutter in the air and Penelo jerks back his head to drip feed Elixir between his lips and strokes his throat to force a swallow. Fran holds firm as the mountains do to Ivalice's ever shifting face. His body has become a furnace and mint is lost to salt and copper offal tang. His blood paints her hand to the wrist but she staunches the flow and Vaan packs the exit wound high upon his back with feathers and down.

'It is not time for you to be off.'

Mist burns and magick quickens; the pulse of Ivalice is with her and Fran is an open conduit passing life through her sturdy bones to his fragile form. The children strip him of the remnants of his tattered shirt and tear the cloth to make bandages as the deluge of blood becomes merely a steady flow. Healing light haloes his body and seeps, like water through porous rock, through his skin.

_Partners then; Fran – I have you? _

His eyelashes jump and his eyes slip close; there is a sigh of breath from previously silent lungs; just one, but one is better than none.

'I told you!' Vaan pounds the ground with a gauntleted fist and it sounds like the beat of the mountain's heart to Fran's ears. The youth's exuberance is hot as the furnace burning deep beneath Ivalice's surface. 'I told you: he fell off a Purvama and nobody dies when they fall off purvamas.'

Penelo is still carefully trying to drip-feed potions via her dangling fingers into Balthier's mouth. He does not swallow but the droplets fall down his throat all the same. 'He's not waking up.' The girl says gravely. 'He's not dead – but he's not healing properly either.'

The pressure under Fran's hand reaches critical mass and his chest expands fully, rising and falling with swallowed life, pushing against her palm. He breathes in and he breathes out and then, again, he breathes to continue the cycle.

Fran pulls her palm from his chest and there is a brand now, scarlet red, upon his pale, pale flesh. It is the brand of her hand across his heart; inked into his skin with his own blood.

'Let's get out of here.' Vaan says with feeling, moving to grab up Balthier's feet and Fran shifts so that she can lift him under the arms and between the pair of them they bear Balthier aloft. Penelo weaves shell and protect spells around them all and casts libra to light a safe path towards the waiting Galbana.

Vaan is still babbling like a happy brook, 'I knew it. I knew it; no way that he can die.' The boy would punch the air if he was not occupied with carrying Balthier, 'We'll win,' he says with utter conviction, 'We'll get the Phoenix, help Larsa make peace with Landis, and then we'll deal with Rikken and the sky pirates.'

Fran quirks an eyebrow; she knows it is not so easy. She knows that life alone is not enough and Balthier is far from restored. 'You are confident hume.' She says dryly, 'Know you not what pride leads to?'

Vaan actually grins at her, 'It's not pride,' he says, 'it's just fact.' His gaze flicks down to Balthier strung out between them unconscious, 'It's about being the leading man; I didn't really understand before, but I think I do now.' His expression is very serious as they enter the Galbana.

'Back in Eraldo's cells, Balthier asked me why I thought he'd let me keep the Strahl after Bahamut, and why he let me play the leading man in Lemures. I know why he did it.' He spoke softly as he and Fran lay Balthier down upon one of the bunks at the back of the main (and only) cabin of the Galbana. 'He's wrong and I'll tell him so when he's better, but I understand what needs to be done and I'm going to do it.'

Fran studies the hume man-child thoughtfully for a moment. She does not pretend to misunderstand him and she nods once, 'The leading man can never die, and can never fail, but all men are mortal thus the torch must past to a new bearer.'

Vaan nods, 'Right, but there can't be more than one leading man, and the leading man is Balthier now and it's always going to be, at least while me and Penelo are around.' Vaan's blue eyes are very wide and very grave. 'I don't want to be a hero: I don't want to take his place - and I won't.'

Fran watches Vaan bound to the front and settle in the pilot's chair. She thinks that Balthier had made far wiser choice in apprentice than even he could know. She thinks that Vaan, despite his words, would make a very good leading man for new tomorrows. He has a heart that is pure and generous and will make a legend that will be of a different quality of heroism to Balthier's own. Fran wonders, turning back to her partner's still form, just how long Balthier has been plotting his retirement from the stage?

'What new role awaits you, Balthier?' Fran murmured very softly kneeling down beside the bunk next to Penelo, who has all this time remained silent and diligent in her healing duties. 'Do you seek a greater stage, or would you fall to shadow?'

Balthier's wound still weeps through the bandages of frayed cotton pressed against the tide. His face is still and pale, devoid of energy and character. Penelo peels back an eyelid and a lifeless brown orb stares upward into the cavity of his skull. He breathes in and he breathes out and there is life twined to his bones, but Balthier is not restored.

There is life but spirit is lacking; Balthier is far from here, wandering paths unknowable, alone.

'Fran what's happening?'

Penelo moves efficiently checking Balthier over for hidden wounds, counting the throb of his pulse and the depths of his breathing with clever fingers. 'The magick is taking now but….but it's like there's something missing.'

Penelo looks up in confusion and grief, 'It's like his body's responding to my cure spells, and he's alive again, it's just that, when I send my magick into him, I don't feel his…..'

'Spirit?' Fran rose to stand before the bunk once more as Vaan started the engines of the ship. Penelo nodded, face aghast.

'Yes,' she whispered, 'Yes, it feels like…..it feels like Balthier's not inside his body anymore, like his body's _empty_.'

'It is,' Fran replied simply well aware of Vaan listening intently from the pilot's chair as the Galbana rose through the air. She shook her hair from her face and flexed the fingers of her blood coated hand. She examines the flaking coating of his blood caking her flesh.

'Magick and fortune contrive to restore life to Balthier's bones,' Fran murmured, unwilling to speak yet on the pulse of the mountains and the discovered crossroads of the ways, 'but his soul from flesh's housing has been ripped away; empty vessel he is now and so shall remain…lest….'

'Unless what?' Penelo asked anxiously.

It was Vaan who answered in a voice that was as heated ice and fire within snow capped peaks, 'Unless we find the Phoenix and get his soul back.'

'Yes,' Fran agreed, 'It is war between us now.' She reached down to brush her blood gloved hand over Balthier's cheek, 'The Phoenix shall fall, e'er I will, for there can be but one owner of Balthier's soul.'

_Partners then, my dear Fran, and it shall be my honour and privilege to speed along your time; we shall be the stuff of legends. _

'And his soul is mine already,' Fran stated simple with the strength and conviction of the mountains.

* * *

_A/N: For she is Fran – now hear her roar! Next up battle Royale: Viera versus Phoenix! Want to place your bets? _

_Obviously Balthier is not dead (you didn't really think I'd off him, did you?) but he is going to play a bit of a back seat for the next chapter or so. Misplacing one's soul is no trifling matter and he wasn't exactly in great shape emotionally before he shoved a large sword into his chest and dived headfirst off a big floating rock. Fool of a pirate! Where would he be without Fran around to pick up the pieces, hmm? ;)_


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: 707 O.V: The Moors of Mara – Landis**

They came from all compass points; they came in bands of three and four, bearing tools in small furry hands. They gathered around the scorched and smoke damaged Strahl, pom-pom plumes bobbing in the cold wind.

They came, they saw, and they went to work.

The fraternity of Kupo, the Moogles of the nomadic Engineers Guild, even one or two Moogles from the Cartographers Guild; they all heeded the call and came to lend what aid they could.

Montblanc arrived on the back of one of his sister Gurdy's chocobo's and found his brother Nono standing on a large wooden supply crate directing the repair crews with grim attention to detail. Montblanc nodded his head in approval and dismounted.

'Kupo-po brother,' he greeted his younger sibling, 'What do you need?'

Nono scratched his head with the end of the wrench he always carried with him, 'Kupo-po I have a list brother.' He withdrew the piece of parchment from the folds of his green tunic and unfolded it with a shake of his hand. Montblanc took the list from his brother.

'Kupo,' he breathed in sharply in surprise, 'Expensive, kupo.' Monblanc's big dark eyes danced over the rather long list of new components and equipment needed to see the Strahl airborne again. His brother Nono sniffed in outrage and drew himself up, chest puffing out, in offended dignity.

'It is for the _captain_, kupo!' the wrench rose in the air and Nono's orange plume thrummed with indignation, 'No expense spared!'

Montblanc remembered his own master, that great hume warrior he had once served, the man whose death Montblanc had hoped to see avenged through Clan Centurio. He nodded his head in approval once again. Moogles were not bound by the ways of humes, but there was honour to be found in serving a worthy hume all the same. Montblanc was glad his youngest sibling had found a hume worthy of his love and devotion.

'How will you pay for labour, kupo?' Montblanc queried his brother, thinking that he would lend out some hunters if he must. They may not know much of engineering but they had strong backs and could be put to good use he was sure.

Nono had cocked his head to the side and looked at his brother curiously. 'Pay, kupo? No, my brothers and sisters of Kupo will toil for free.' He pointed the wrench in the direction of the industrious Moogles buzzing about the Strahl. 'It is our way, and it is for master Balthier and mistress Fran; we can do no less for them, kupo.'

Montblanc nodded. The hume Balthier and the Viera Fran had long been esteemed in Moogle circles; the hume was an enthusiastic supporter and patron of many Moogle enterprises and the Viera was kind to Nono and Moogles met in her travels.

'Understood; Gurdy says she will loan chocobos free of charge to carry supplies, kupo.'

'Kupo-po, that's good.' Nono was impressed. Gurdy rarely ever even gave discounts, let alone free loans of her herd. It was something Nono had always been pained by; his sister's materialism standing in complete opposition to Nono's own philosophy.

Montblanc looked once again at the list his brother had furnished him with; he thought that he would talk to the Moogles in the Rabanastre aerodrome. He thought that they might be able to find some of these needed parts for discounted rates and ship them here, both as favour to Montblanc himself and because it was for the Strahl.

There were many from all walks of life in this Ivalice whom had reason to love the Strahl and her crew.

Montblanc looked across at the Strahl, the vessel was swarming with Moogles of all colours and plumes, like fruit on a hot summer day. 'Kupo, where is the Viera Fran and her hume now?' he queried.

His brother's message had said that the Strahl was stricken and grounded in Landis, but Nono had said little else. Still the Viera took good care of the ship and the hume would never abandon the vessel by choice, thus calamity must have ensued.

Nono's dark eyes were troubled but resolute and brooked no further question as he gave a stilted reply, 'The master has found trouble, kupo, but mistress Fran will rescue him.' Nono then brightened visibly and raised his wrench in salute, 'and I shall have the Strahl ready and waiting for them when they return, kupo-po!'

Montblanc nodded yet again, pleased with his brother's fortitude, and tucked the list of repairs into his red tunic. 'All speed and good fortune to you kupo-po,' He bowed to his brother in the traditional Moogle method, swinging his plume from left to right.

Nono bowed to him in turn. 'And good fortune to you as well, kupo-po; may the spirit of Kupo be with you, brother.'

Montblanc remounted his chocobo (having first enticed the creature to lay down with the use of a Gysahl green so he could reach her back) while Nono went back to his work waving his wrench and fluttering his wings as he jumped off the crate and hurried over to the Strahl.

Once secure on his mount's back Montblanc once again surveyed the hive of activity around the Strahl, wondering if one hume had ever managed to inspire such devotion from his brethren Moogles before now?

Finally Montblanc turned his regard outward to the dark and ominous storm clouds gathering to the south, towards the mountains of Lantana.

'Kupo-po,' Montblanc shivered. 'Let good fortune find the Viera and her hume as well.' He murmured quietly before pulling on the reins and setting his chocobo in the direction of Rabanastre at a healthy sprint.

'Kweh!' The chocobo squawked as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall and inky dark clouds poured across the sky from the south. Montblanc could feel something brewing; he could feel it in the very fluff of his plume.

'Kupo-po, not good; not good at all, kupo,' the proud and noble Moogle shivered and once more spurred the Chocobo on. There was an ill wind blowing down from the mountains and no mistake.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Fort of Ennis Gywn-Hallam**

_Burn and die Viera!_

Fran hit the fungi sprouting, lichen limned wall of the dilapidated fort with bone jarring force and bounced back off it. The gale force winds tore at her with talons of sleet laden air. Blood poured from raw and torn flesh all over Fran's body as she rolled onto her hands and knees, hair strewn with dead leaves and filth and rose into the face of the hurricane once again.

_Leave tree dweller; leave or die._

Scorching waves of heat slammed into Fran where once fingers of ice had torn at her. The Phoenix unfurled her dark and glorious wings and eclipsed the sun. A rain of ash and cinder polluted the air; the stench of melting fat and crackling flesh filled Fran's senses dizzyingly. Fran spread her stance and leaned into the wind, spitting blood from her mouth.

'I will not.'

The Phoenix screamed her fury and a ball of fire hurtled towards Fran. Diving to the side Fran rolled smoothly and scrambled to her feet. She swung the great axe blade up and around before her face as another comet of molten ash and flame smashed into the metal. Fran felt the heat lick and burn at her fingers and the ringing agony of darkest magicks reverberated down her arms as she jumped to her feet, great axe upraised in both hands.

_Interloper; unwelcome one; filth dweller; muck raker – go back to your wooded hovel Viera. _

In the Phoenix's vitriolic rage Fran heard the screams of the condemned burning upon pyres; she heard the hatred of the wronged writhing in the fires of their grief and betrayal. It was cacophony; it was agony. Fran hefted her axe and staggered forward.

'Release him.' Fran's ears twitched with burning smuts of ash falling from the clouds. They fell like driving needles of red hot pain; an excruciating rain with no surcease. Fran, bowed against the tumult, struggled forward into the flame wreathed shadow of the Phoenix' ferocity, 'Release him now; he is not for you.'

She swung the axe and watched the wide flat blade shear through a crust of ash and flame, sundering dark shadow and black smog in twain, only for the Phoenix to scream like mountains falling, and repair the cut as smoothly as smoke filling a void.

_Betrayer – weak and inconstant Viera; you left him, you abandoned him. He died with your name upon his lips._

The Phoenix's right wing flared out and struck Fran fully. Into the air and through it to crash against the wall once more did Fran fly; more blood sprayed to taint the tinder scalding air as Fran rose again to stare with feral hatred upon the Phoenix.

'He yet lives and will live to fly far free of you once more.' She spat in defiance.

Fran swung the axe up and around in a majestic arc, pivoting her body to follow the blow as the Phoenix screeched hideously and thrust out a talon-foot in an attempt to snatch away Fran's heart. Pain blossomed throughout Fran's body as the axe shaft ignited in golden flame viciously burning her palms.

_Never! He is mine; his soul to me is soldered. He longed for sky; now he will know naught else. _

Rearing back the Phoenix regurgitated black bile flame from open maw and Fran ducked, rolled, and kept rolling as the fort wall behind her shattered in a skittering rain of white hot rock and rubble.

'He lives for freedom – and I shall return him to such a state,' Fran rejoined harshly jumping to her feet unarmed, bloody, but unbeaten. She extended one hand and one long finger jabbing her long nail towards the perched and monstrous infernal shadows of the Phoenix's furled form, 'His soul no more yours to own than it is to know.'

_Vicious Viera; greedy, empty soul, _the Phoenix flared her wings and shards of black and red diamond flame rippled in the shadows thus exposed, _parasite – leech, wizened and barren wretch; you would grow fat on his youth and glut yourself on his need. Filthy Viera; treacherous heart – you have done to him no less than I, by binding him so tight to thee when you are less than the lowest of hume slatterns._

Fran was forced to dance around biting gouts of blood dark fire, as the Phoenix lashed out to gouge the ground with talons ruby red as steel straight from the forge. Sparks caught in her hair, burning her scalp. Fran bared her teeth, landing nimble as a couerl in a predator's crouch, her own talons scratching at the ground.

_Needy thing is this hume; he stumbles through life, all belief sundered and betrayed, heart sick and lonely – longs for truth and knows only lies. _The Phoenix's hated voice becomes a dark mocking chorus, insidious and corrosive. _He performs for your praise; he longs for validation, for some greater love that will ne'er deny and malign him. You feed from his devotion and give him no succour in return. He would die for you and you, broken selfish creature, you are merely dying._

Fran's head jerked upward and she hissed, ears going rigid, rising straight up from her head, as claws dug inch deep into ancient black soil. Eyes of sunset rose fixed on twin embers of sulphur flare. Hatred met hatred and conflagration merged.

It was said that Viera have no souls; it was said that Viera are hollow without the will of the Green Word and Way to give their vacant flesh meaning. It was said therefore that Viera could not know true joy, sorrow, grief or rage.

It was said that Viera know not what love is.

'Lies!'

From the soil she sprang and into the air she was bound; twisting like a cyclone borne on tempest tossed currents, Fran flew without wings, claws extended, eyes redder than flame and heart erupting with a fire to shame the darkest, cruellest, pyre.

Fran's claws tore through smoulder shadow, her teeth snapped at mouthfuls of ash and her feet lashed out at flame as if her flesh could never burn.

'Shatter, die, bleed.'

With feral kicks and shattered heart alone Fran attacked again and again and again. Her dark skin ruptured in blisters as the fire burned her and her ears bled as the Phoenix's crowing mockery deafened her. Kick and kick and kick again but the shadow formed around her, burning and scorching, and turning cinnamon hewn flesh to angry red and puckered black. Her hair in long filaments burned away to grey ash and then to naught at all and still the Phoenix rose above, impenetrable and ascendant in a dark, dark sky.

Through the air and into rock and stone again did Fran fly and fall, bouncing upon ragged teeth of masonry; ancient shards of fallen hume ambition gouging burned and weeping flesh from aching Viera bones. Fran lifted her head and stared through blood and bruises up and at her nemesis.

_Viera you are lost, _the Phoenix's eyes ate at hope like flames devour air. _He is gone from you. Abandoned him you did; stole his greatest hopes and joys away when from his side you chose to depart. You were his mirror clear and fine; you were his world, and he gave you all he was. Filthy Viera; it was you who killed him when e'er you left him. You did not fight then, why fight now?_

Fran breathed deep as she bled and felt such rage that there should have been Mist but there was none. Her chest was fit to burst and she would scream had she breath enough to spare; she would howl and beat her chest and rise once more to rip and tear and rend apart this grief. Yet she does not, yet she cannot. Viera are empty vessels after all; weak without the Wood to prop them up.

Fran lets her cheek to dark soil drop; she closes her eyes only to open them again. She tries to rise, for broken she may be, but Fran has wandered these paths of humes too long and too far to stop now. Her arms shake to support her weight and she turns her face from the ashy black fire of the Phoenix's triumphant arching wings.

'I did not fight then,' Fran can do nothing but confess this truth, 'but fight now I do.'

Her face turned from the Phoenix's gloating smoulder Fran sees the mountains rising from the land below to touch the sky and her spirit kindles anew to fight.

Fran rises, bleeding and ragged, and extends one nonchalant hand as she has seen Him do a hundred times before; a darkling humour flares in her eyes, borrowed from Him too. Fran tosses her head and quirks her fingers in insouciant insolence; she cocks one hip in insult and invitation both – as she has seen Him do so many times before - she speaks his lines:

'En Garde!'

* * *

**Aboard the Ifrit: en route to Landia **

Basch Fon Ronsenberg is a soldier; first and foremost he is a man of the infantry before he was ever a man of the cavalry. Before knightly vows he was a barefoot pikeman poorly covered in armour filched from dead men who had no need of such and had garnered little advantage from it when e'er they did. Thus it is that Basch knows death; he knows her presence well.

When the Ifrit is close hailed by a racing Galbana scorching through the sky he knows that this does not bode well. Larsa looks up at him as he orders the Ifrit to open a docking bay for the Galbana. The boy's face suggests that this mere child also knows when death is abroad.

Still it is Penelo's ashen paleness that tells the whole story; her reddened eyes and her listlessness merely add accent to an old story without words and no need for narrative. Men die, and they die in droves for little purpose; it is the way of things.

'Penelo what has happened?' Larsa hurried to the girl's side as she stumbled through the docking bay doors towards them. 'Please,' the lord Larsa looks at his soldiers in their thick coated metal armour, 'some water for the lady, if you would.'

Penelo shakes her head mutely but takes Larsa's offered hand all the same, 'It's not me; I'm fine.' She lies without realising she is doing so. 'It's Balthier,' her voice catches on the name and she swallows dryly in sore need of the water not yet granted her. 'I'm sorry,' contrition writ large on her face even though this girl has nothing to apologise for, 'I just don't have any more magick in me.' The girl's blue eyes are liquid with tears, 'I promised Fran I'd watch over him but I think he's going to die for good anyway.'

All men die, Basch almost speaks the words, but he holds them back. In this the pirate is nothing special, and Balthier has been chasing his own demise with single-minded attention most of his adult life, if Basch is any judge of these things. Still Basch keeps these reflections to himself; he does not believe in any kind of cruelty – up to and including the cold naked truth.

In short order all is revealed and it is the same tired old story; young men dying because it is easier to court death's cold embrace than to live, sometimes.

Basch himself boards the Galbana to carry the pirate's failing body into the Ifrit and Vaan follows him, uncharacteristically grave and quiet. Larsa's eyes widen at the sight of Balthier dangling limply in the arms of an Imperial Judge Magister and it strikes Basch that such a sight must be a powerfully ironic image. He suspects that Balthier himself would find it greatly amusing was he in a position to find anything funny right now. Still Balthier is the sort of rogue who would linger in spirit just to laugh at his own funeral, so perhaps he is he, floating beside his body, smirking at all this drama he has created through his folly.

'What has happened here?' Larsa is aghast but turns swiftly to his guardsmen to wrap out an order, his nimble mind always running ahead of events, 'Find Mage Babbitt immediately.' He instructs before turning back to Basch with earnest eyes. 'Would it be best to take him to the sick bays, or to a private bunk, do you think?'

In the end the pirate is deposited onto a bunk reserved for the commander of the Ifrit (which today happens to be Basch). The Imperial mage, of the name Babbitt, approaches on clattering metal feet. He smacks his chest in greeting with one gauntleted hand.

'My Lord Emperor, you summoned me?' Covered head to foot in metal it is hard to know if the man is young or old, high-born or low. His voice is garbled by the metal helm he wears just as Basch's is, should Basch make any utterance at all.

Larsa nods distractedly to Babbitt but his eyes are all for the wilting Penelo, 'This young lady is fatigued and needs curative, and the man in the bunk has been most gravely injured; they are both in need of physick, master Babbitt.'

Penelo, who has been seated in a plush chair with Larsa crouched before clasping her shaking hands looks up with magick dazed eyes. She has cast too many spells too quickly and is feeling the negative effects of such.

'No, really, I'm alright,' she insists. Vaan, who had been pacing the periphery of the cabin picking at the enamelled wall coverings, looks over then.

'Pen, just let them help you,' he says tiredly.

Basch walks over to the bunk and examines the pirate's chest wound for himself; under his helmet he blinks in surprise to see a dark scarlet hand print, too long and too delicate to be hume, embossed upon Balthier's pale and faltering chest.

'Fran?' Has the Viera done this as some Vieran magick to keep him breathing? Or has Balthier always carried her mark over his heart?

'She managed to bring him back,' Vaan steps up beside him scratching angrily at the back of his own neck, 'but as soon as she left to go deal with the Phoenix Balthier started to get worse – like the only thing keeping him alive was Fran being near him.'

It probably was, Basch thinks but does not say.

The mage Babbitt politely moves up and into the space Basch vacates for him. Pulling his helmet off the man is revealed to be a kindly faced and soft spoken youth, and Basch suspects this Babbitt must have begun his military career as a conscript and has found the best way to get through his service while avoiding the violence of war is to dedicate himself to field medicine and magicks. Babbitt's examination is precise and thorough, during which time Penelo stumbles over, Larsa hovering beside her solicitously.

Basch notices that Balthier has lost his usual frippery during his terrible fall from grace; his dangling ear-rings are gone and his hair is plastered to his head. Pale as the sheets beneath him and stripped of his usual armour of conceit and cynicism Basch realises for the first time that Balthier is barely a man grown; but three and twenty years of age. Basch frowns; the pirate reminds him of all the cut down flowers of youth he has seen littering countless battlegrounds. It is a pity and a waste.

Babbitt frowns as he casts a few sensing spells over what will soon be just a body, 'This wound was self-inflicted.' He glances back at Vaan and Penelo. Vaan turns his face away, jaw throbbing and does not answer.

Basch thinks: in war all wounds are self-inflicted, for it is only those who seek death that would ever dream to make war. Once again he says not a word and waits instead for a different narrative, one that perhaps allows for happy endings.

'It's a Deathbringer sword,' Penelo answers without answering dancing around the harsh point, 'But then he fell before the sword wound killed him; he was up on the Ennis purvama and…..' she trails off exchanging a frustrated and helpless look with Vaan.

'The Ennis purvama?' Basch pulls off his helmet finally, sick of its claustrophobic heat and darkness, 'Why there of all places?'

Vaan shoots him a dark look, 'We think it was the Phoenix; she must have teleported him there or something. We found the Strahl burning in a field and Fran said that the wind would lead her to where Balthier was.'

'The Phoenix? You truly believe that it is the Phoenix that caused all this?' Larsa's eyes are very sharp, 'Then the story of the vengeful Landis queen is more than just folklore? The statuette is truly possessed of sentience?'

'Yeah,' Vaan's expression is as dark as Basch has ever seen it, '_She_ did this to Balthier.'

Larsa's mind is flying, 'Can you prove this? Can you prove to the Landissian's that their revered relic is potentially dangerous to all who wield it?'

'Who cares about that?' Vaan demands, politics having little hold on him, 'Fran's going to make sure the Phoenix never hurts anyone ever again, anyway.'

There is silence then, though Larsa catches Basch's eyes and his bright blue gaze is deeply troubled. Basch knows that Larsa is wondering if various cherished plans, some of which would have involved the prodigal Bunansa, will now have to be abandoned. The boy emperor is worrying about handing over a dangerous relic to a hostile people who could conceivably use it against the Empire. It is a terrible weight upon the shoulders of a child. Basch meets the boy's eyes and manages a faint smile.

'Fran is a capable woman.' He states mildly; a statement that does not mean anything whatsoever, except to people prepared to give their bias to his empty words. You see, Noah, Basch thinks, I have learned the ways of politics after all.

Babbitt looks up from his ministrations then and turns to address Larsa gravely, 'My Lord, I do not think there is anything I can do for this man.'

* * *

**707 O.V: The Fort of Ennis Gywn-Hallam**

The Phoenix lunges, arching proud head downward in striking arc, wings flaring back and outward to swipe at the very corners of the sky. The Phoenix's maws open wide to devour Fran whole; Fran bucks and rolls finding strength anew to find her feet in the spirit of the mountains far below.

'Phantom,' Fran leaps clear of flailing wing beats, dancing around pinions of fire, 'Twist of mist, puff of bad air; no filthy creature am I.'

Sprinting fingers pirouette through the air green and golden light trailing like sprite lights through the air; Viera no longer, perhaps, but Fran's ears still hear when Ivalice would speak and Fran will dare much now as she has always done before.

'Greedy empty soul, am I? No; t'is you that must be gone.'

Fingers of air dance through ether and Fran calls to the Green Way. The still an ancient tree in the centre of the fort's broken chamber groans in its roots; browned and curled leaves from spindled branches rise into a wind that is soft as breath and gentle as the lulling breeze.

'Fire burns to ashes and ashes to wind flee; fly you fiend or suffer.'

Lashing through the air in phosphor sparks of colour Fran's fingers bind the elements to her demands; Wood to Fran will come as once Fran to Wood did serve. Phoenix rules fire and tempest winds but what is burning to the mountains stone? What is the yowling wind to the sturdy woodlands deep?

_Viera you are fool; you will burn._

'Burn then and fires blaze in vain,' Fran strode forward fingers dancing still, faster than thought, 'For rock I am and burn I will not; moved I cannot be.'

Under her feet the ground shivered; purvamas of the sky may be, but it is rock and stone and dark, verdant soil that is their making. Earth meets air, sky and Wood twinned; foolish eagle to make her nest upon such a perch.

'Surrender to sky and alone go – or forever denied and imprisoned by the humes shall you be.'

The earth beneath her feet trembled rock and soil and root twisting and writhing below her. Wood hears and earth as well. The sky is but one of many elements and Fran, she knows them all. The dead leaves from the tree danced through the air to writhe about her head; she is so crowned.

She is Fran and she is angry; let the Phoenix scream and burn and flail, Fran thinks carelessly, for it is all but ashes on the wind to her.

The Phoenix does scream then, shrieking incandescent fury. Her wings engulfed the sky and her hawkish head reared back, eyes blazing hellfire.

_Burn!_

Like a comet fallen the missile of white hot rage descended and Fran stood and watched its approach. The screaming heat sent her hair streaming back from her face and hissed across every open and seeping wound upon her body. Yet the mountains do not move and Fran gave not an inch of ground. Tall and still in the inferno she stood and the fires touched her not.

'Fran I am,' she stepped forward and let the flames fall as water from the duck's back, 'Viera no longer, of Wood no longer; I burn _not_ for I choose _not_.' Fran thrust out one hand, a halo of leaves dancing about her wind whipped hair.

'Fran I am; sky and pirate both are mine.'

* * *

**Aboard the Ifrit: en route to Landia **

'Why not?' Vaan demands angrily into the silence that followed Babbitt's words. 'Why can't you do anything?'

'Because this is, I would wager, a wound not of the body but the essence,' Babbitt states carefully gesturing with one gauntleted hand.

'It is something I have read on; a theorem posited by the Kiltias. It states that a man has four constituent parts to his being; his flesh, his mind, his soul, and his spirit. Mind and body are ephemeral and can be affected by the Mist magicks, but the soul and the spirit are the immortal parts.'

Penelo nodded vigorously, 'Fran said his soul was missing. It didn't feel right when I was healing him and she said the Phoenix had taken his soul.'

Vaan nodded as well, 'She went up to the purvama alone to get it back,' the boy's face twists in frustration, 'I tried to go with her but she cast a sleep spell on me!'

'I don't think this is a soul wound,' Babbitt speaks slowly mindful of his audience and the subject matter, 'Forgive me, I am not well versed on such matters,' he smiled a little caustically, 'We Archadians are more given to matters of the flesh and mind than the spirit and soul – but I would suggest that it is his spirit that has taken grievous injury.'

'But Fran said it was his soul….'

Babbitt nodded cutting off the argument, 'Yes.' Babbitt frowns, 'I recall reading that the spirit and the soul are not precisely distinct from each other. It is more that they are parts of one, indefinable whole.'

'Explain, master Babbitt,' Larsa commanded when Vaan and Penelo both frowned in confusion.

It isn't Babbitt who speaks however, instead Basch finds himself breaking his own silence. He is a little surprised at himself but does not let this stop his words.

'A man can give his soul to another's keeping, he can sell it for love or material gain, or he can excise it from his being in hate or vengeance. The soul is the heart of a man but the spirit is the fire and will that drives him. Evil men have spirit even whence soul is lost to them, and they suffer for it not.'

'Ah, I see,' Larsa nodded quickly grasping tight to the thread of logic. 'And of course, no matter what coercion the Phoenix may have used, Balthier's wound was self-inflicted so….' Larsa abruptly stopped short and turned to glance down at the unnaturally pale and still Balthier, his still boyish face darkening in a nearly delicate wince.

'Ah…' the boy touched a hand to the Solidor crest around his neck a little awkwardly, 'Ah, then that could make the matter more complex again.' Larsa's eyes bleed sympathy for Penelo as he finishes as delicately as he can. 'Regaining Balthier's soul may not be the resolution of this matter that we might wish for.'

'What do you mean?' Penelo asked him, but something in her quenched tone of voice suggested that she already knew the answer: this girl was a soldier after all. She had seen death's garden blooming with the corpses of lost and sundered souls, just as Basch had. Larsa turns from the dull misery in her eyes, because for all his bravery, Larsa is still just a boy.

'My lord Gabranth,' Larsa clears his throat and gathers his reserve, 'please see that the Ifrit's course is adjusted and set new heading for the purvama Ennis. Fran may be in need of assistance,' Larsa paused and glanced back down at Balthier, 'and I would not see any more lives lost over this. There has been one too many casualties already. Landis and the Empire cannot come to true peace over innocent blood spilled.'

'Aye,' Basch nodded to one of the Hoplite captain's standing guard by the door to the cabin and the man clanked off to give the order in his stead.

'But….But what about Balthier,' Vaan demanded, 'What are we going to do about his spirit or his soul or any of it?'

Basch looked sadly over at the boy, 'I fear there may be nothing we can do.'

Basch lifted his dead brother's helmet and once again placed it over his head so that confining darkness thick as a mourning shroud obscured most of his field of vision. When he speaks again it is muffled and contorted by the metal echoes of his brother's visor.

'A man who takes up arms against himself is a man whose spirit yearns for release….and a man with no spirit for life is a dead man no matter if his body yet breathes.'

Penelo gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Her eyes dart from Balthier's stillness and back up again. 'Fran? Does Fran know?'

Basch sighed and the sound escaped him in metallic sibilance, 'Mayhaps she does,' he said quietly, 'but knowing and accepting are two different things.'

* * *

**707 O.V: The Fort of Ennis Gywn-Hallam**

'Fran I am!'

Earth and wood erupt upon her command and gravity is circumvented; rock and stone and brick into a maelstrom thrown up and out to rain hard granite hail upon the smoke and smut of the Phoenix. The eagle shrieks as boulders rip the air and pull smoke in twain. Flames sputter and die suffocated in clouds of rock dust and grit; the Phoenix shrieks and flails.

Fran is not yet finished. Imperious as only a daughter of Golmore could be Fran raises her voice to the soar above the tempest.

'Rise!'

Clawed hands to the heavens strike and there is a great and terrible tearing and the ground rents and the tree screams as branches twist like serpent tongues and lash like cat o' nine tails. There is a monstrous roaring as earth open wide dark jaws and Wood groans and bends.

'Wood twine and bind and you shall know your prison.'

Viera claws squeeze down, crushing air beneath fleshly palms; blood seeps to quench the lusty dark and open fissures in the ground. Fran lashes and slashes and strikes the air; she weaves a net and then a web and then a tightly binding cage. The Phoenix shrieks and the scent of wood burning taints the air but Fran hesitates not. She twists and she grinds and her cage is wrought tighter than hate and more cruel.

'Know you darkness of wood and no release; know you not the sky's embrace but only the solitude of stone and ore; bound you are and burn and burn and burn alone forever you shall.'

The Phoenix stopped screaming, the ground stopped shaking, the tree stopped crying and the gales stopped their howling; Fran unclenched her bleeding fists and dropped with nary a sound to her knees. She is spent and depleted.

Where once there was a tree there is now a monolith of rock and stone twined with deep boughs of wood and rooted to the ground as the tree once was. The stone is oddly shaped with outspread appendages like wings that are caught in a granite parody of flight, speared through with thin bones of wood. An eagle's once proud head rises from the stone mouth open in a shriek of silence and on the ground at the foot of this hideous monument, sits a small, battered statuette of brass and granite. From above grey cinders fall like flakes of snow to smudge the surface of the rock and cushion the statuette in a nest of muck and leaves. Fran knows was she to touch the scuffed brass of the statuette she would find it hot.

Fran is triumphant even as she bleeds. The crown of leaves from her head falls and withers; earth and wood is so released but the soft and gentle breeze strokes over her bloody and burned flesh with sprinting light and almost teasing ministrations. The sky cleaves to Fran for the sky is a greedy, needy, lonely thing.

A greedy, needy, lonely thing?

'Balthier?'

He is not there; not in the call of the wind, nor the shadows of the setting sun now revealed from banks of passing clouds. Fran rises painfully to her feet and walks to the purvama's edge. The Ifrit is a dark blot upon a faultless sky above the teeth of the mountains. Fran watches the approach of her allies and she does not know where he has gone. She does not know what uncharted territory now hides him from her.

She has grown too accustomed to his presence at her side, and she at his. Now he is in hiding from her and she knows not how to find him. In the past she has never had to try – for he has never sought to leave her behind.

Where have you gone Balthier? She asks the wind silently and though she strains her ears she hears no voice in answer.

'Vicious Viera,' Fran whispers to herself looking down at her own trembling bloodied hands, 'you left and now find nothing to return to.'

Almost distantly Fran thinks she hears the Phoenix crowing in bitter triumph from deep in her stone prison.

_Together bereft, Viera; we are united in our complicity. Together we have brought down the leading man – he is gone, fled from us both. _

Fran drops to her knees on the purvama's edge and wraps her arms about herself. A greedy, needy, lonely thing – she is bereft indeed. He has run away and she knows not if she can call him home again.


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Just a quick note to thank everyone reading and reviewing this story for the tremendous support and response you have given me. I truly do appreciate it. I feel that everyday I become a little better at story-telling because of all the reviews, advice, and encouragement I receive. ;)_

* * *

**Chapter Thirty: 707 O.V: The Moors of Mara – Strahl's berth**

'Here I wait.' Fran said when the Galbana returned her to the Strahl's grassy berth.

Battered and bruised Fran had accepted only the absolute minimum curatives necessary to ward off infection or further complications once she arrived aboard the Ifrit, and had then supervised returning the Strahl's captain to his ship.

He lies there now, in his cabin, on his bunk. He breathes in and he breathes out, shallowly and rasping, but his pulse beats even as it skips. There is life still trapped within him but it ebbs away on the hour. Physically he could recover, for he is young and in otherwise excellent condition. It will all be for naught though, if his spirit to his body does not return.

Nono toils determinedly but the Strahl, she is stricken as her captain; Fran knows she will never fly unless he takes the helm again. The Strahl is more than engines and glossair; her soul is his and it has departed for frontiers unknown. Fran cannot abide to huddle within the bone work carcass of the fallen Strahl and so retreats to the open air and the elements so newly returned to her.

'Three days I shall wait.'

Fran said as she found a vigil point on a low rise hill where the tall grass cuts like glass and hisses in the breeze. The rise looks over at the falling vale of the moors below and the sky looms huge and unbroken before her eyes. She kneels in the grass so that it strikes up around her, scratchy and uncomfortable, like the bars of a ceiling-less cage.

'Fran please….' Penelo pleads with her, 'Fran whatever happens, you can't…' the girl had swallowed hard then, lips pursing and she tugs on her braid struggling not to cry. This is a hume woman-child who has known more grief than many could imagine but still has strength enough to grieve anew for yet more loss.

The girl rings her hands and stares hard and hot at the Strahl and beyond her outer shell to the still form in his bunk unmoving. 'We love you Fran,' the girl speaks as if such a confession is triviality and because she does not look she sees not the naked shock that flairs in the Viera's eyes for a split second.

'We love you_ both_.'

Penelo's fingers twist and writhe and twirl around and around her wrists like serpents twinned in a pit, 'We're going to go with Basch and Larsa to this peace accord meeting, but we'll be back in three days.'

'I understand,' Fran says sitting still and quiet in the grasses, looking out to the wide flat horizon. Penelo turns to look at her sharply then, and such sharpness is so contrary to the girl's character that the scent of it, astringent and hot like scalding copper, stings Fran's nose.

'Do you?' Penelo demands almost angrily before turning away to stare back down the low rise to the languishing Strahl. 'I don't think you do. Neither of you ever really understood.'

Penelo's eyes watch Vaan who is bounding around the Strahl's outer hull with Nono riding his shoulder. The boy is helping the Moogles with repairs and Fran knows that if he could he would breathe life back into the Strahl's dead centre and make her fly again.

'You and him, you weren't ever alone,' Penelo tells her heatedly. 'You both wanted to be so badly, but life doesn't work that way. You don't get to decide who loves you, or whether or not people choose to care about you….and we _do_.'

Penelo sucks in a breath and her hands fly apart and then rejoin in sudden violence. The movement reminds Fran of flocks of geese crossing the sky in arrow heads, or a flurry of sparrows darting hither and thither in a thick swarm.

'We're coming back for you both in three days,' Penelo speaks with such vehemence as to make the pledge a threat, 'But you have to promise Fran – you have to _swear_ -that if….that if Balthier….if he can't…' Penelo shakes her head and refuses to give voice to the fear of loss and abandonment.

'You have to promise that you'll fly with us; no matter what, Fran.' The girl's eyes are almost wild. 'Promise,' she gasps out almost trembling with violence and hurt and fear, '…..please.'

Fran is silent for a long moment because she is thinking. She is thinking about her conceit, and His. Convinced they have been, in their tight and binding partnership, convinced that they are outcasts, wanderers, broken souls who have abandoned and lost all that they once cherished, and thusly, will never again find shelter or welcome in the hearts of others. Renegade Viera and son in exile: where could they possibly belong if not in the home and heath they both deny?

Have they truly been so arrogant? Fran wonders dazedly. Balthier she knows is young enough to be forgiven his grief blinded isolationism, but what of her? Has she really been such a fool all these long years - so conflicted by the price paid for her own conviction - that she denied herself what she has always wanted: acceptance?

Fran looks up at the trembling girl before her and realises that, yes, she has been blind indeed. She who claimed so boldly that Viera are possessed of free will and she would leave to prove it; she fell into Golmore's doom all the same. Her words have been lies because in her heart she has never believed them. Fran alone was Fran a lie and it has taken this, this monstrous sundering, to make her see.

Fran smiles and Penelo blinks so that a single fat tear breaks from her left eye and dashes down her cheek. Fran can easily reach up, even while kneeling, to stroke a hand over the girl's face. Penelo is trying hard not to cry, and she is failing.

'Please Fran, not you too; promise us you won't leave us….even if….' She shudders in breath, fists clenching, 'He wouldn't want you to follow him….please….'

'Hush,' Fran is smiling still as she wipes away the girl's loosed tears, 'hush now. My promise I give, and my word I keep. If not with Him then fly with you both I shall.'

Penelo breaks then and drops to her knees throwing clumsy arms around Fran's shoulders and burying her face into Fran's hair. Fran allows this, though there is still part of her that would push away from such unsolicited contact. After a moment Fran pats the girl, in awkward consoling, upon the back and Penelo moves away, wiping fiercely at her eyes. She sniffs loudly.

'I'm being silly, I know,' she sniffles trying to smile through a blotchy face, 'We'll be back in three days and the Strahl will be fixed and Balthier will call me and Vaan sentimental fools for carrying on like this.' The brave smile is fixed and almost grimace like, 'Won't he, Fran?'

Fran thinks that the scent of the girl's tears caught in salty drops in her hair will stay with Fran long after Penelo has departed. She meets the girl's frantically hopeful eyes with her calm regard.

'I will wait here,' she says, 'He shall return to his flesh or he will not,' she raises one shoulder in a half shrug, 'I will wait, and what will be, will be.'

Penelo leaves then, for there is nothing left to be said. She runs down the gentle slope towards the Strahl and Fran watches her for a moment, pink and gold and so full of life and hope that she seems to burn before Fran's eyes. Penelo joins with Vaan and Fran can hear their conversation.

The boy will not hear any suggestion that Balthier will do aught but return presently to take up his mantle once more. He is stubborn as Golmore in his convictions, this boy; stubborn as a wide-eyed and angry prodigy who could not cast aside his own integrity not even for the price of filial devotion.

Eventually Fran turns from the children to give her back to the Strahl and looks outward towards the rolling, craggy veldt of the moors. She hears the heavy cold iron approach of the dead man's mummer.

'Fran,' Basch clears his throat still standing a good many feet behind and slightly below her on the clefts incline. Her ears twitch in greeting but she does not verbalise a welcome.

'We leave now for Landia and the peace accords - Penelo tells us that we might have an ally to our cause in Hamish Fon Denbak, or at least, a man who will be moved by Balthier's plight.'

Fran does not turn, her eyes watching grey tinged clouds trail over a thick and turgid sky. She nods her head. 'Hamish is a man of honour; you would do well to greet him as you are, and not as he who you pretend to be. Hamish knew your brother.'

She hears Basch's pulse pick up and skip a beat at this news; she hears the questions discipline and a life times hard knocks will not let the hume man ask.

'Where not the helm,' she tells helpfully, 'let him see your face and he will bite his tongue on speaking a name no longer allowed to pass the lips of friends and foes alike.'

Fran finally turns to look over her shoulder to Basch, 'But know that he will know you, Basch Fon Ronsenberg, and will treat you as you are, not as your brother was.'

Basch smells of conflicted emotion; gratitude, relief, sorrow and even resentment. Fran nods her head, acknowledging the secrets of the man's soul even though she will not speak of them - and nor will he.

'Hamish is a man, as you are; he will sell honour and gladly garb himself in shame, should it bring peace to those he serves above himself. If he can aid peace, he will.'

Basch ponders these words and Fran watches and listens to his thoughts as they churn behind a placid countenance, 'Aye,' the man says finally, 'thank you Fran; I know to trust your counsel.'

Fran turns back to watch the slow crawling clouds; she scents rain distant in the air and a breeze ruffles the shorter hairs that curl about her face. Basch turns to leave, understanding without need to understand, what she does here and the importance of the vigil she keeps. He pauses on his steady descent down the slope.

'He'll not leave you.' The man speaks gruffly as if dragging a sentiment past his own tight guards.

'Balthier has many faults, but he is honest to his own word given,' Basch says slowly his words falling heavy with the weight of experience upon her ears, 'Whatever promises he e'er made you, I don't doubt that he'll see them fulfilled.'

He leaves then and Fran is left to ponder. She thinks on time and diversions; she thinks of the making of legends and the promises of a flighty youth with more secret shame than he cared to bear. She does not know if Basch is right and it is not her way to hope; she will wait, and she will see.

It is the boy lord Emperor who approaches to intrude upon her solitude next. His steps are light but his demeanour troubled. He doubts his welcome but his own sense of right and justice impel him forward all the same. Fran's ears twitch and she waits to listen, but that is all the greeting she will afford.

'I wished to thank you,' the scion of the Solidor serpent's nest explains, his voice still carrying the high treble of a child weighted down by the heavy words of an adult. The boy coughs to clear his thoughts and his heart pounds. He wants to say sorry; he wants to admit that he is wrenched with fear to meet with the Landissians; that he is plagued with doubt and loneliness. He wants to confess that he fears everyday that Archadia will never be the Archadia of his childhood delusions and hopes. Fran knows this because she can smell it all so clearly now.

Larsa does not say anything of these inner truths however, for he is a boy weaned on statecraft. Instead he speaks the language of obfuscation his family knows so well.

'Your assistance in retrieving the Phoenix will salve old wounds and create new accord in a time of peace for the Empire.'

Larsa so speaks and although he means the words sincerely they drop from his tongue in stilted and jolted lack of eloquence. The boy is not so deafened to his own rhetoric that he does not know his audience cares little for Empire's peace of mind.

Larsa is quiet for a time as he discards any number of flowery phrases and tries to find a truth that is palatable to them both.

'I owe you and Balthier a debt,' the boy concedes even though to do so could be dangerous, 'I would pay it and gladly in times to come,' the only honest Solidor admits, 'For I would gain great solace in knowing that I have friends in kind to offer and repay such aid.'

Fran does not reply, though her left ear flicks to state that she has heard and understood the boy lord's meaning. Larsa waits behind her, as he is not like that other Archadian child and he cannot read her ears and know her silent speech. Fran cannot offer any words of assurance for the boy, even if she had been so inclined. She knows what he wants, for the prodigal Bunansa, the Archadian son who so despised his mother country as to take up arms against her, to come home to the bosom of Empire and in so doing give validation to Larsa's reforms and his reign.

'Should he return,' Fran concedes eventually as the boy remains standing at her back, an Emperor in command of millions standing to attention to a lone Viera, 'I will tell him of your fidelity. He will know of your friendship but I cannot say that he will return it.'

'I understand and I thank you,' Larsa states and there is eagerness in his voice for he is the son of a house that has shed the blood of thousands and ripped up the map of kingdoms millennia in the making. It is enough for he that friendship offered is acknowledged as he has long learned that actual friendship is beyond Solidor grasp for the moment.

Larsa leaves quick and quiet, and shortly thereafter all the humes leave and the Galbana sweeps low over the moors to set the grasses to shivering and the clouds are all torn asunder by her passing.

Fran waits in a silence that is never silent. The grasses whisper in excitable sibilant chattering and she hears small furred creatures with snuffling noses scamper through the undergrowth. Birds sweep and wheel overhead, seeking out the burrow dwellers with keen and merciless clarity of vision. The rains come and the scent of liquid mud permeates all Fran's senses. She shivers as the rain clogs in her hair and the twisting breeze cuts with blunt edges.

The sun returns between breaking cloud walls and it dances across the sky dipping low towards the horizon. Nono comes, as the sun sets on the first day.

'Kupo mistress Fran,' the Moogle sits in the grass and is instantly all but consumed by the thick greenery that rises higher than his head. Fran scoops him up and settles him on her knees. They sit in silence as the first day passes and the first night creeps upon them.

The stars pop up in a clear dark sky and the temperature drops by degrees. Nono shivers in her lap but Fran is like the clumps of stone rising from the springy grasses dotting the moors, and she feels not the cold. Nono leaves her eventually when the cold becomes too much. He toddles back to the Strahl.

'Kupo, I shall sit with master Balthier, kupo.'

Fran nods her agreement but Nono does not see it. Fran waits.

The dawn rises on the second day and Fran has no sense of Him near or far. She thinks that perhaps she should tell the wind that she is far from diverted and that her time does drag, but she does not. It has never been her way to make demands, for it has always been His way to anticipate her needs before she had need to make any demand.

She is resigned to wait out the three days – and then she will know what will be. Thus she waits as the new day dawns.

It is sunny on the second day and the insects buzz and blur about her and the scent of pollen is thick on the heated summer breeze; Fran's nose wrinkles and her ears twitch as insects try to settle in the inner curve of each ear, but she does not move nor break her vigil. He is as like to return under a broad sun as he is under a crescent moon, after all.

It is high noon when she receives another visitor. The Rapture, proud and shouting her presence in red and gold gilt, descends from the skies and her captain hurries to the stricken Strahl. Fran waits, for she knows it will not take this rash and hot-blooded near stranger long to look his fill and trespass against her.

'What the bloody blue blazes has happened?'

The hume Aeneas yells his question while sprinting up the hill, and this braggart circles around her, not content to shout at her back.

'A bleeding week, a fortnight, that's all it's been! He was fine when I left for Balfonheim.'

The hume struts about the crest of the bluff in his anger; she smells confusion, worry, anguish. This hume does not know his own mind on many matters; he is angry and he knows not why. The sight of Balthier so near to death has scared him and this hume likes it not.

Still Fran says nothing and merely waits.

'Well?' Aeneas demands, 'Ain't you going to say something?'

'I am not.'

Fran states, which in itself is a contradiction; the hume stares at her before starting to pace about the crest of the hillock once more. This hume and He have this at least in common; stillness is not native to their characters and they must e'er be on the move.

'This is a right sodding farce, this is.' Aeneas snarls Archadian diction descending to the gutters.

'You should have seen the look on Rikken's face when he heard word that Balthier was dead.' The bitter hume youth laughs, a harsh bark of sound devoid of humour. 'Elza swore a blue streak and whapped him around the head with a rolling pin when she heard; blamed Rikken for the whole mess.'

Fran frowns, 'Are they not pleased? Was it not their will for him to die?'

Aeneas stops his pacing to stare at her aghast, 'Of course not, what are you Viera, ruddy daft or something?'

He shakes his head and fine tendrils of red fly-away silk scrap across the shoulders of his embroidered frock coat. 'It was a feint – a gamble. All of it, the assassination bill, declaring a race for the pirate supremacy: it was Rikken's big plan to deal with the bad eggs.'

Fran cocks her head to the side; she does not care but she feels she aught listen all the same. Should Balthier return he will want to know, and if he doesn't she has lost nothing in the cost of listening, and likely learned something, at least. Thus she waits and listens.

Aeneas looks at her as if she should know all of that which he will soon impart, already.

'You ain't telling me he hadn't bleeding well figured it all out; the great Balthier not seeing through a bit of petty politics – y'havin' a laugh.'

Fran shrugs one shoulder, 'Mayhaps he knows indeed the plot, but I am not he.'

Aeneas' smile is not nice, 'Ah so he doesn't tell you everything, eh Viera?'

Fran watches and she waits; this hume smells of jealousy and it burns like rubber and oil against her nose. She hopes the wind will change and blow this hume away from her.

She waits.

Aeneas begins to pace again, scraping fingers through his long free flowing hair of red. 'There are too bloody many pirates these days; you were there on Lemures, you saw how bad it's got. Bloody peasant scavengers the lot of 'em,' Aeneas curls his lip, 'Not like it use to be.'

Fran waits. The day is growing long and she fears He will not be returning today as He failed to return the day before.

Aeneas blows out his breath and lets air hiss from clenched teeth, 'Balfonheim got a taste for the respectable life under Reddas – built up legitimate trading arrangements, started turning a profit instead of stealing scraps from pillaged vessels out to sea. Rikken knows he can't make like Reddas did, he doesn't have the contacts, the Gil, the friends in high places. He can't treat with the Empire for good terms.'

Fran's eyebrows lift, 'Balfonheim seeks Empire's embrace?'

Aeneas has the grace to look mildly disgusted but he shrugs his shoulders all the same, 'Balfonheim don't want a sodding Imperial barricade blocking all routes into the port. She don't want to have to live under the threat that Archades will send the troops in and take the port by force, at any moment.'

Fran waits but now she is interested. She had not known relations between the Empire and the tiny free port on her southern coast had become so fraught. Archades had long ignored the pirates on her doorstep; the way a beast of burden ignores the insects that buzz around it.

Aeneas takes her silence as ignorance and condescends to speak further. 'It gets worse every time one of those bloody bastard scavengers takes down an Imperial ship; Balfonheim has no part in it, but it will be Balfonheim that becomes the battleground all the same when the little brat-lord Larsa loses patience.'

Fran thinks she begins to see the web of Rikken's grand design and she suspects, no, she _knows_, that Balthier had long since pierced the veil of misdirection to the truth therein. This is the reason he sent Aeneas to Balfonheim; because Balthier knew Balfonheim was not a threat to him at all.

'Balthier was to be the conduit to make alliance between Balfonheim and the Empire?'

Fran asks without asking. She nods her head, pleased with the intricacy of the design laid bare before her now. She unravels it as she speaks.

'Balthier is a man who can walk both roads; he has interests common in both sects. As Balfonheim's master he would ensure the port's survival as Rikken could not, yes?'

'Right,' Aeneas nods. 'Of course no one knew the daft sod was going to get himself killed, or near as damn it, in the interim.'

Fran frowns, 'Why for did Rikken not simply ask for aid? Why place Balthier's life upon a bounty and turn Balfonheim's foes to Balthier's enemies as well?'

Aeneas gives her a jaded look, 'Because Balthier wasn't going to cash in his favours with that sandbox queen or the lordling-whelp Larsa for anything less than his own life's worth.'

Fran cocks her head to the side, true, she thinks. That is truth, at least. Throw his life away, he might have done, but it was not for Balfonheim.

Aeneas threw up his hands and started pacing, 'He was supposed to do just like he did in Dorstonis, at Eraldo's demesne; call in the royal cavalry and show all those scavengers that he was too big a fish for them to prey on.' Aeneas scoffs derisively, 'Rikken and that lot were counting on Balthier throwing his weight around and giving these bastard pretender-pirates a bout of what for.'

'I see,' Fran says because she does. She sees the beauty of a plan that is in its intricacies as delicate and fragile as the man it has been weaved around. 'And now Balfonheim stands more vulnerable still, with her proclaimed protector upon death's cusp?'

Aeneas looks at her for a long moment and then beyond her and down to the downed Strahl. She smells anger and disappointment and something closer to sorrow all merging into one acidic tincture rising from his skin under the hot sun.

'Is he going to make it?'

Fran shrugs one shoulder, 'I know not; I wait.'

'You wait?' Aeneas turns on her, 'That's all you're bloody doing? Sitting here in the sodding grass and waiting?'

Fran waits and does not respond. Aeneas' lip curls in arrogant contempt and he shakes his fiery mane of hair behind him.

'Bloody useless partner, you are Viera.' He condemns her. Fran shrugs again. As to that, only time will tell.

Aeneas leaves, prowling down the hill and invading the inner sanctum of the Strahl once more. Fran cannot hear him within, for the metal of the Strahl's hull muffles even her hearing, but she well imagines that the hume paces at His bedside and berates Him for the audacity of falling to His own woes. Fran would stop this, but she feels that Balthier would not wish her to, so she does nothing but sit and wait.

The Rapture leaves thereafter, screaming through the blue sky for Balfonheim; the hume has not the patience to wait – and thus in his haste brings Balthier that step closer to death complete.

Fran waits. Fran is patient as stone.

The second day rolls towards its end; the evening is sweetly warm and golden. Fran listens to the sounds of hammering and soldering and activity going on behind and below her. She wonders if the Strahl will fly without her captain? Fran finds the idea unpalatable. The dusk draws in and the birds vacate the sky.

As the darkling shades of violet twilight roll over the moors Nono comes to her side. He offers her a plate of cheese and crusty bread and Fran refuses. She will not eat this day, or the next. When her wait is over she will eat, and she will drink, and she will sleep, and she will live. Now she only waits while life is held in suspension.

She waits and waits.

Nono sits upon her lap and they wait together until the cold night air draws down upon them and Nono retreats to bear Balthier's empty flesh and bones company within the skin of the Strahl.

Fran watches the moon wax and wane; she watches the stars emerge and then retreat upon the night sky. She watches night shade to day. The third day; the last day.

Fran waits. She waits and she waits.

It is another mild day, not as warm as the last, but less turbulent than the first. Pollen breathes through the air; the scent of summer is old in her nose. The grasses are alive with creatures great and small and the sky sings with bird song. Fran watches the clouds and she listens to the breezes. She waits.

She becomes as the stone of mountains true. She is unmoving, unblinking; she is still beyond the boundaries of living flesh and she is harder than the dead. She is waiting, waiting, waiting.

She watches the horizon for sight of the Galbana approaching; she watches the rising, and then sinking, sun with a sense of dull dread. She knows her waiting is all but over and there is a keening cry locked deep within her breast she will never release. She would do her waiting all over again if she must; she would wait three days more and then again, but she knows that these next hours will decide the matter, and she must but wait and see what will be.

She waits and like grains of sand through an hour glass the third day slips from her grasp.

Nono approaches once more with food and she ignores it.

She is still waiting.

Long, long past noon it is when she spies with keen eye an airship on distant horizon. Her muscles clench with emotion she can scarce put a name to, only for relief like ice water to cascade from her scalp to her numbed toes when she sees that it is not Galbana but another craft that turns to the east long before it passes her.

There is still time; there is still time left on this third day. She is waiting still; waiting, waiting, and waiting still.

Rock is less constant than Fran had assumed, for soon she is shivering cold and aching of joint; she has sat like this, unmoving, for two days now and her body screams for relief. Her stomach cramps with hunger; her senses grow dull with fatigue. She is waiting still but she knows not what she waits for; inevitability like the drooping sun hangs like an axe-man's blade over the horizon.

She is still waiting and she will wait until there is nothing left to wait for but she fears, oh yes she fears, that time is fast escaping them both.

The sky is burnished old and gold with dusk's blushing taint already, and Fran is wondering where Galbana is, when her eyes betray her and her lids droop shut. She is lulled to nothingness by the sonorous hymn of the rushing grasses of the moor.

She has waited, and she has waited……but she is but Fran alone - and perhaps that was never enough for Him?

A ghost moon rises in the darkening sky above her as Fran sleeps like a stone in the long grasses. She grows cold and begins to tremble in her slumber as the sun gives way to the nocturnal pretender to sky's throne.

She is waiting still even as she does not dream.

She does not watch the shifting tracks of migrating shadows across the rippling moors. She does not hear the stumble of feet struggling up the hill behind her; the grunt of effort, the thump of a pained heart. She is inattentive. She has been left waiting over long. she does not see His shadow as it falls upon her.

She is in need of diversion, He thinks, if she is so bored that she would sleep in the grass like a stone.

'Hmm,' he mumbles and fumbles the blanket in his hands that he has carried with him from the Strahl.

It is this which wakes Fran.

The smells of hume male musk, pain sweat, and wool dropping down around her trapped in tight knitted cloth awakens her senses. There is a thud of a body falling heavily to his knees beside her. There is a grunt of pain, as if he fell harder than he intended, and a wash of new scent spills over Fran. Gun smoke and leather and something indefinably hume and male and oddly sweet assails her nostrils.

She would know this scent above any other.

Fran's eyes open and the tarnished slithers of the sun slipping low behind the distant mountains is obscured by a shadow kneeling in the long grass before her. The dying light of the third day, like gold fire, limns his silhouette and she cannot see his face.

Awkward hands tuck a woollen blanket over her body, about her shoulders; she feels the brush of his knuckles against her throat as he tucks a fold of blanket into the crook of her neck as one might bed in a small child. The gesture is made awkward by more than mere fatigue; it is a movement of raw and unrefined tenderness. It is the act of a man who was not raised to think of the welfare of others, but who thinks on such more than he feels able to show.

Fran would know such clumsy kindness even were she blind and deaf and lost to all feeling. Yet he does not speak and she cannot be sure; she must wait a little longer.

Fran cannot move at all for waiting; she is waiting with every particle of her being, senses strained to a fine and agonised attentiveness. She cannot see his face and he does not speak – she has waited so long and now she fears her senses contrive to deceive her. She finds that she must be the one to speak.

'Balthier?'

She stretches out one cold hand, pushing back the blanket he has tried to wrap around her in so doing, and she hears him make some throaty noise of irritation for his ruined compassion. She brushes her palm over a shadowed cheek that is thick and furred with a dozen days of beard growth.

'Hmm,' it is neither greeting nor confirmation and still he does not speak a word to let her know the disposition of his soul; she cannot see his eyes to know his heart for the shadow and the gold that enfold him.

The light shifts behind his back finally and Fran's eyes pick out more details; her senses feasting on circumstantial evidence. A wrinkled but clean white shirt hangs open over his bowed shoulders and she can hear the labouring of his heart; it trips and skips beats trying to find a rhythm it can abide by. He smells of pain and exhaustion and still he does not speak.

How much longer must she wait?

Fran drops her hand from his face, made unfamiliar by his dishevelment, and she presses her palm and splays her fingers over the branded mark of her hand across his heart. His skin is hot as a furnace against her stony coldness and his chest expands and deflates under her palm; he breathes deep and strong even if there is a catch of pain upon every exhale.

She studies him with every sense, but it is the part of him that she cannot sense with nose or eye or ear that concerns her. Has he returned or is he gone in all the ways that have ever mattered?

His gaze is down-cast and it is shattered and blind; she can see nothing of his heart in these dulled mirrors. How much longer must he make her wait?

'Balthier?' Silence is her custom, not his, and she likes it not that he turns the tables now. This coyness becomes him not.

He moves then and it is jerky and without grace, much as if he has grown unaccustomed to the movements of his own body. Still, she is to find that his object is far more daring than she might have expected. He lies down beside her without a word spoken, and his head finds cradle upon her stomach. Fran is left frozen, like the stones of the moors.

She knows not what to do but wait.

He sighs deeply then, making a pleasant bed for his weary head upon her very flesh. She hears the tremor of a certain tired satisfaction in his exhalation as he rolls over onto his back so that he can rest his head upon her but still look to the clouds above. Fran is bemused and so she waits, but shifts her arm so that she can keep her palm pressed to his heart as he lies close.

She waits and she waits for him to speak; scant words alone from him and she will know if she has waited all this time in vain or not. She must hear his voice to know his soul.

She feels it, like a great pulling force deep within the welter of his flesh, as he tries to dredge the pieces of himself up and out of the deep waters of his soul. He takes a deep breath, Fran's hand moves with his chest, and she feels his pulse flutter like a trapped bird beneath the fragile architecture of his ribcage, and she waits….she waits…

He holds his breath and his eyes still seem sightless as they track the meandering progress of pink tinged cumulus clouds above. She might almost believe that he is as a dead man walking, vacant inside; save that there is something, something within that she can feel stirring. Almost it seems to her, that she can feel his soul's tattered wings struggling to open.

Fran waits, waits to see if the pirate can still fly.

There is a sense of pressure building, momentum gathering, that Fran can sense with something other than her ears or nose or her eyes. She thinks of the veins of fire deep buried in the stone hearts of mountains and the tremendous pressure needed to force that molten flow to the surface. She waits…..

'…….Fran….' Forced from dry throat like the fires of a volcano he speaks at last.

It is but one word, and one word only, yet she senses that he is scrabbling now to bring forth more words; to find his voice, his will, and his spirit again. She imagines wings beating against a cage of sorrow, beating to be free once again; fighting to rise from the ashes of his grief and regrets.

Fran waits and she does not breathe and she does not speak; her fingers flex against his racing heart and she fears this waiting is the worst torment she has ever known.

I am waiting she wants him to know, and I am listening. I am waiting to know if you and I shall fly; I am waiting to know if we take the stage anew. Propped up on her elbows, his blanket pooled about her chest, she is able to see his eyes as he lies across her. He meets her gaze and holds it. She sees his heart…..

He breathes out explosively then and she feels his muscles tense, and like the circulatory track of lava, she sees without seeing, as his soul burrows deep into flesh and blood, anchoring itself once again and his wings…..his wings….

He blinks his eyes and when he opens them again they are dark and chaotic and filled with everything that he is once more. Fran's ears twitch; she is waiting…..waiting.

'Fran, I've given this some thought…..' he begins and yes, there is his smile that is never quite a smile. 'Death,' he says, 'Upon reflection I have decided I am opposed to it.'

Fran blinks – she has waited all this time and for this? He would make a jest?

Balthier lifts her hand from his chest and raises it to his scruffy face so that he might kiss her palm.

'Terribly tedious waste of time, this dying lark,' He murmurs against her skin and his breath is hot and his pulse is strong. 'Therefore,' his voice lilts like music, dark with nuance most humes can never garner from but the simplest of words, 'I have decided I'll not do it again.'

Fran is without speech; she has waited and waited and this is what he chooses to say? She has battled a goddess and summoned Wood and Mountain to her will for this? She has waited for his return so that he might impugn her personal space and make a triviality of his own calamity?

'I had the strangest fear that the sky had fallen,' Balthier tells her cheerfully oblivious to Fran's thoughts. He sighs with utter contentment and closes his eyes, making of Fran's lap his pillow.

'What a fool I have been,' he whispers against the night air, 'for the sky and all I need has been here waiting all along.'

Yes, Fran thinks, as the pirate sleeps and his flesh and blood is as warm and vital as the summer sun against her mountain hewn coolness, yes this is what she has waited for.

And if he should ever fall again she will gladly wait once more, for she is mountain and he is sky, and she knows that even if he wanders far, he will always fly home to her; ever and always.

They are partners – and tomorrow they fly.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty-One: 707 O.V: The Chamber of the People - Landia**

Vaan stood in the back of the Obsidian banded chamber, leaning against a thick whorled column and watching the men sitting around the table with a frown on his face. Penelo sat on the cold shiny stone floor chewing her nails and worrying about everything and anything.

'If the Empire wishes to make recompense for the sins of her past she must be willing to pay.' One of the fair haired and muscular Landis men demanded and banged his fist on the long, sigil strewn table top.

Larsa sitting opposite did not flinch and instead spoke calmly, 'With due respect master Ipstein, the Empire has offered a stipend of two hundred thousand Gil a quarter for the first year of Landis' new devolved autonomy…..'

The fist slammed down on the table again, 'Two hundred thousand; the empire is responsible for the destruction of our entire state and you would have us come cap in hand for the Empire's spare change!'

'Arno, enough,' Hamish Fon Denbak roused himself where he sat at the end of the table and frowned at the other man. The big, shaggy haired man dominated the space he took up with an easy, almost feral grace. He turned surprisingly kind pale eyes on Larsa before speaking again.

'What we, the council of Landis, want is the ability to start anew.' Hamish said calmly. 'We want our sovereignty accepted and respected by the Empire and the other nation states; we want the right to set our own taxation rates, administer our own rule of law, and establish independent trading agreements with Dalmasca, Rozzaria and the other free nations of Ivalice.'

Larsa nodded his head, 'As you will see from the contract of devolution the Senate has drafted, these requirements have been met; Archades intends to facilitate the restoration of Landis as a free state in due time. You will see that Archades honours her promises….'

'Bollocks!' another man, younger, even blonder, and with duelling scars tracing each cheek snarled out, 'You must think we are fools; no sane man would trust the word of the Empire or a damned Solidor.'

Larsa flushed and on his pale skin it was very obvious. His hands, which had been resting on the shiny table top, slipped from view. Basch, who had been standing silently behind Larsa's chair, shifted his weight, hand drifting towards his brother's lance sword. Hamish Fon Denbak shook his head disgustedly as the other men around the table added their own insults.

Five hours, Vaan thought as he pulled away from the column he'd been leaning against. This whole thing had been going on five hours and he was sick of it. Yesterday had been the same, that had been six hours of Larsa trying to give Landis what it wanted and all these men, except Hamish, had been more interested in insulting a thirteen year old boy who had never hurt any of them, than they were in getting freedom for their own people.

Vaan had had enough.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Moors of Mara – Strahl's berth**

'Master Balthier!' Nono and about twenty Moogles descended on him as Fran helped Balthier hobble back towards the Strahl from the hill. The chill of night was closing in and Balthier was shivering so hard it made his aching chest seize up even more painfully.

Still when Nono hurtled forward and threw himself at Balthier's leg he managed to crouch down without screaming in pain as his chest wound protested. Balthier considered this well done indeed as Nono clasped at his hand with both of his small furry paws. He recognised a number of the other fluffy Moogle faces and vibrantly coloured plumes hovering before his eyes.

'Nono, Tetran, Lulucce,' he nodded to the primary threesome and then turned his gaze outward, 'Ah and I see Sorbet and Minty as well – and Floyd and Jumby, Lulu and Mongo; it is good to see you all.'

Balthier didn't add the caveat of, and now perhaps you'll tell me why you are all here? He didn't say this because he rather suspected he didn't want to know the answer.

'Master Balthier – we have fixed the aft glossair power couplet drive and re-calibrated the dorsal fins to the repaired matrix of the quadratic equaliser,' Nono told him proudly. Balthier blinked at him. He looked to Fran for help.

'Nono has been supervising repairs for the Strahl,' Fran told him around a yawn, her eyes met his, 'The _Phoenix_ did much damage to the ship.'

Balthier winced and swiftly averted his gaze as memories dark and turgid threatened on the horizon. He remembered driving the blade of Deathbringer into the control console of his ship again and again. He remembered watching his best girl burn while he sat in the grass with her glossair blood all over his hands.

He remembers wanting to tear his own wings to pieces. He shudders deep to his bones. He remembers the despair.

In the present Balthier clears his throat and places his hand lightly on Nono's head, almost in blessing, as he looks out at these other Moogles, all of whom he knows and likes.

'Thank you.' He says and it surprises him how easily the words come to his lips, when they have never come easily before. 'You will be recompensed – but for now please accept my heartfelt thanks to you all.'

'Kupo no thanks necessary,' Floyd the engineer tells him.

'Kupo-po – we were glad to help.' Says Sorbet and Minty agrees with emphatic head nod and plume wiggle.

'We owe you, kupo,' says Tetran, 'You're one of our best customers.'

The others agree with this assessment, each waving off the possibility of repayment, and all expressing some sentiment that amounts only to the pleasure of a good deed done and the restoration of Balthier's own self to health. Balthier turns to Nono who is looking up at him with liquid black eyes.

'Kupo, Nono takes care of his ship and his crewmates, kupo.' The Moogle says with simple dignity.

Balthier feels a strange pang; it isn't surprise, because he knows that Nono is loyal. It is more that, perhaps for the first time, the sentiment, the actual _sense_ of Nono's loyalty, his devotion, impacts on Balthier as something other than an uncomfortable weight of responsibility upon his shoulders.

It feels…….good. It is - _gratifying_ – to know he has a friend in Nono and these other Moogles. How very odd that is, Balthier thinks, when he has spent all his adult life so far trying to deny any such bonds of affinity.

He remembers the loneliness though; he remembers that he died completely alone. He remembers the despair – is that why he feels so warm in the face of this camaraderie?

'Well,' Balthier bluffs voice oddly rough, 'nevertheless, we shall have to see what can be done to further enhance the word of Kupo in future.' He says and he thinks; I have debts to pay…..I have friendship to return in kind. This is not time to run away.

He glances at Fran because she seems a safe alternative when the looks of open and happy devotion he can see in the gaggle of Moogles starts to make him feel decidedly choked. Fran almost smiles, perhaps sensing the strange almost happy awkwardness inside Balthier right now. She nods her head in swift agreement.

'Agreed,' she pauses and meets Nono's eyes, 'For a good deed done and returned is the way of the fraternity, is it not?'

Nono clasps his tiny furred paws together. 'It is kupo-po; it is,' he nods his head vigorously and soon there is a bobbing sea of nodding Moogles and bouncing plumes and a veritable chorus of "kupo" to assail the ears.

Balthier can't help it, he laughs for the simple joy of watching the Moogles be Moogles. Fran glances at him sharply; Balthier does not laugh like that. It is quite unseemly for the leading man to give way to such unaffected mirth. He knows this, but he just doesn't care. He'll laugh if he bloody well wants to.

He remembers dying, gods damn it. He remembers despair.

'You are hungry?'

It is a question without being a question and as soon as Fran raises the possibility Balthier realises that he is utterly famished. His stomach snarls as loud as Behemoth and it suddenly occurs to Balthier that he has been watching the cheerful Moogles with the single-minded attention of a hunting predator. He winces in mild chagrin.

He remembers dying; he remembers the starvation of a soul he never allowed to grow.

Balthier wrenches his gaze from the plump, fuzzy little balls of joy before him and smiles somewhat caustic. 'Perhaps a mite peckish,' he concedes as his stomach continues to holler complaints.

He will not eat Nono, he tells himself firmly. It would be decidedly classless to fall upon and devour the Moogles who had so generously fixed his ship. Rather rude indeed, one might conclude.

Still he is so hungry that he finds himself contemplating what a spit roasted Moogle with lemon and herb seasoning would taste like. Cluckatrice he thinks; they will be white meat just like Cluckatrice.

Then again, almost everything tastes like Cluckatrice in the end.

He remembers dying; he remembers the endless darkness of despair. He remembers screaming as he fell and fell and fell, without once making a sound.

Fran takes him by the arm without another word, and guilds him towards the small cooking fire the Moogles have established just outside the Strahl. She sits him down and pushes an Elixir bottle into his hands (Balthier thinks she does this as much to keep his hands occupied so he cannot make a grab for a passing Moogle as much as for concern over his health).

Vaguely he senses that time is passing by, life is going on around him, but he cannot quite focus on anything more than breathing in and breathing out with regular monotony.

He remembers despair; he remembers loneliness.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Chamber of the People – Landia**

'So what's in this thing anyway?' Vaan asked in empty voice as he ambled over to the table and picked up the peace accord document.

Back in the corner of the room he heard Penelo curse him for causing trouble and get to her feet swiftly, probably figuring she'd need to cast a protect spell on him before one of the Landissian's tried to hit him. Larsa, sitting at the table still, looked stricken and vaguely panicked, while Basch didn't look much of anything, which in itself was bad sign.

'Who are you boy?' The scarred man demanded.

'I'm Vaan,' Vaan said blandly, 'I'm a sky pirate.' He squinted at the document and whistled sharply between his teeth. 'Wow, lot of long words here.'

The scarred man's face went a mottled purple colour and he rose from the table to slam both fists onto the impossibly shiny surface and lean menacingly across to roar in Larsa's face.

'You bring criminals to a peace accord?'

Hamish rose to his feet like a lazy mountain couerl, 'This is Ffamran's apprentice lad, Grigori. The lad and the lassie are to be trusted.' Hamish smiled thinly as Penelo hurried up to Vaan's side. 'Ffamran's never been impartial, but he ne'er takes a side other than his own. He speaks highly of the pair of 'em and I trust his judgement.'

Vaan blinked and he felt Penelo squeeze his hand just quickly as she stood beside him. Balthier spoke highly of him; really? Vaan smiled.

The scarred man, Grigori, looked like he wanted to argue with Hamish but didn't dare; Vaan took this to mean that Hamish was the one in charge even if the other two men shouted louder. Vaan knew that Balthier helped out the Landis resistance quite a lot, and because they helped out Balthier and Fran, Vaan and Penelo also knew Hamish and his wife Bethesda pretty well. Vaan liked Hamish, but then truthfully, Vaan liked most people. He always figured it made life easier; hatred took too much effort.

Vaan shook out the paper he still held in his hand and cleared his throat before carefully beginning to recite aloud the words he could actually read on the paper.

'This is to hereby certify that the Empire of Archadia will, from this day forth, in accordance with the stipulations of this here peace accord, agree to recognise, honour, and uphold the devolution of power to the Landis council, made up of the below named honoured men, with the intention of bringing forth the full autonomy and restoration of the Republic of Landis within a time period to be agreed and stipulated in this here document.'

Vaan paused and looked around at the men at the table, 'What's wrong with that?' he asked. 'I mean it sounds to me like you're getting what you want, right?' He flipped through the pages of the document, 'What are these stipulations?'

While everyone around the table waited because they weren't really sure what else to do, Vaan furrowed his brow and carefully read through the list of points dotting the next few pages.

'Archadia agrees to support the establishment of independent economy and infrastructure in Landis via stipend of eight hundred thousand Gil for the first year of the accord; to be distributed in quarterly instalments. Upon completion of the first year of accord this amount will be open to review by both parties…..'

Vaan looked up and raised both eyebrows high on his brow, 'Whoa….that's a lot of Gil.' He clucked his tongue, 'Dalmasca only got four hundred thousand Gil,' he grinned almost slyly at Larsa who looked a trifle uncomfortable.

'The senate is responsible for all monetary decisions,' Larsa seemed quite interested in staring at his own lacy white cuffs and the reflection of his face in the shiny table top at that moment. He lifted his bright blue gaze reluctantly.

'Her Majesty the lady Ashe seemed satisfied with the reparations offered, of which the Gil was part of an over-arching agreement.'

'Well sure,' Vaan nodded sagely, making a show of rubbing his own hairless chin with his fingers, as he'd seen the Marquis Ondore do once. Vaan had taken this as a sign of cleverness and looked to emulate the fashion; unfortunately he was clearly doing something wrong as the first time he did it Penelo had asked him if he had a pimple or something on his face. Still practice would make perfect, Vaan was sure.

'I mean it's fair,' he continued in his rambling way, 'and Dalmasca didn't want Archadian Gil anyway.' He shrugged easily and glanced guilelessly at the faces of the angry Landissians, 'It was enough that we had our freedom, won fair and square.'

The Landissian called Arno Ipstein rocketed to his feet, 'Now listen here boy….'

Grigori with all the scars tried to snatch the document from Vaan's hands, 'Who are you to question….'

Vaan smirked and he hoped, just a bit, that it looked a little like Balthier's smirk, 'I told you,' he said holding the peace accord out of the man's reach, 'I'm _Vaan_ – a sky pirate.'

'Aye?' Hamish had gone back to sitting in his chair easily and it looked to Vaan like he was trying to hide a smile behind an interested face, 'And why does a sky pirate think he can tell us what we should do?'

Vaan blinked stupidly (which was an expression he had much more expertise in), 'I'm not telling you what to do – am I?'

He looked around innocently and met Basch's eyes. His friend looked very, very mild in expression which Vaan knew meant he was trying not to laugh. 'I mean I'm just trying to understand what the problem is.'

Nonchalantly Vaan dropped the peace accord back on the table top and walked away like he didn't know where he was going. He started to scratch at the back of his neck for something to do. As he passed Penelo she hissed in his ear: 'I hope you know what you're doing.'

Vaan was vaguely insulted by this, because Penelo should know by now that he _never _knew what he was doing. He was Vaan – he just sort of did what he thought was right, and hoped that it would all work out. After all, doing the right thing was supposed to be simple, wasn't it? You didn't need to think to do the right thing. Right now, doing the right thing, as far as Vaan was concerned, meant helping Larsa.

Peace had to be the right thing, surely?

* * *

**707 O.V: The Moors of Mara – Strahl's berth**

Balthier sits as bidden and watches the golden flames leap and spark, as the dry logs crackle and something rather irksome roasts in a stew pot hanging over the fire. He feels no inclination to do anything but watch the rosy flames dance. He breathes in wood-smoke deeply until it makes his aching chest hurt and he coughs.

_Fool of a pirate_; he remembers everything.

Balthier sits and he breathes and he doesn't do much else as Fran drapes a heavy coat over his shoulders and takes from his hands the empty Elixir bottle he does not remember draining dry.

He remembers dying. He remembers the bite of the Deathbringer plunging through his chest. He remembers the agonising, almost ticklish scrap, as the blade jarred off breastbone and punch out through his back. He remembers the pain, but more than that, and so much worse, he remembers the despair.

'Thank you,' he says without looking away from the flames as Fran casts a regen spell upon him. He does not therefore see the quizzical look she casts him.

He remembers dying……and he remembers dying all alone. He wonders if he will ever be able to lie down to sleep again without remembering that monstrous blackness that swept up on him to snatch his life away as he fell through an indifferent sky.

Dinner is served and Balthier finds a bowl of some unutterably foul looking slop pushed into his hands along with a spoon. He ladles up a spoonful of the thick pungent stew mechanically. He has always been an abstemious eater; he has never been enamoured of food for food's sake. One eats because to do other is to starve, but he has never seen the action of eating as anything other than a tedious necessity best done quickly and with little fanfare.

The dead don't eat; he remembers dying. He remembers despair, pain, loss. He remembers and he does not think he shall ever forget.

Balthier swallows the first mouthful of the vile unknowable, unidentifiable, stew and it is as unspeakably revolting as he suspected it would be. It is also the best meal he has ever eaten. He has spooned up every dreg in his bowl and is reaching for more while Fran is still attempting delaying tactics by chewing on bread. His second bowl is absorbed more by osmosis than the usual method of gurgitation in less time than it takes to tell of it.

He wants to eat until he is too heavy too move; he wants to eat until his sides groan. The dead do not eat and he wants to prove to his own satisfaction, via gluttony, that he is truly alive.

Balthier eats all of the stew and then most of the stale bread and hardened cheese he is offered. He does not remember if he chews more than three times before swallowing. He does not really care; he feels warm in his stomach, full and content. He is not hungry anymore and the simple fact of a full belly is enough to make him smile.

He is alive – gods be damned he is _alive_ - but he still remembers dying. He remembers the despair, the crushing loneliness; the utter devastation of knowing himself to be the architect of his own downfall. Yet here he is, eating slop and shivering under an old coat, but he is alive.

Alive, alive, alive!

'Alive,' he whispers into his empty bowl and Fran looks over to him sharply, ears twitching. He does not look up. He does not meet her questioning gaze.

He wants to leap to his feet and bellow at the top of his lungs: I'm alive you bastard fates; I'm alive and you did not break me. I am not broken!

He doesn't even attempt this feat however because he suspects strongly that the best outcome would be that he would fall over, legs too weak to take his weight, but more probable such sudden movements would likely cause him cardiac arrest, and wouldn't that be ironic, hmm?

_Fool of a pirate. _He remembers dying. He remembers despair and loneliness and so much pain. He feels small in the face of that remembrance and yet, and yet, he is not broken.

That amounts to something, doesn't it?

Fran is watching him; he can feel the focus of her curious gaze upon his skin. He looks away from his sightless pondering of the dancing flames to meet her gaze finally. She cocks her head to the side and he can see that she is tired and wears the blush of old bruises upon her burnished skin. This should worry him and it does, but such things are distant right now.

'Do you not ask for razor, mirror, and water to bathe?' she asks him and there is laughter in her tone but also concern.

Balthier's hands immediately go to his face which is bristling with hairs. He grimaces; oh how he loathes facial air. He can well imagine the horrendous state of his hair, and his sideburns are no doubt lost almost beyond repair under the thicket of stubble he now sports. He can smell his own body odour rising in the heat of the camp fire and it is enough to make him squirm.

Still…..

'Hmm,' he scratches at his right cheek, scraping through the bristles. 'Later; perhaps,' He murmurs distantly. He will worry about his vanity later. He'll worry about a lot of things later.

He remembers dying – what is a stubbly face to that?

* * *

**707 O.V: Landia**

'See,' Vaan drawled inanely, 'I just don't understand why you're angry with Larsa. I mean, yeah, the Empire took over your home and made you all follow their rules, but that happened before Larsa was even born. He didn't do that to you - but he's still trying to fix it.'

He glanced at Penelo with a grin and she rolled her eyes at him and looked nervously over to the scandalised and dazed men around the table who weren't sure what to do or say. Vaan had that affect on people; he liked to think of it as the cultivation of his charisma.

'I mean when the Empire took Rabanastre, yeah, I hated them.' Vaan began again, knowing he had a captivated audience. He shot a look at Larsa who frowned and looked down at the table.

Vaan thinks back, then, to the boy he was less than two years ago, although it seems far longer. He frowns; it hurts to look back. 'I wanted nothing more than to make every Imperial pay and pay and pay for taking my home, my brother, everything away from me and Dalmasca.'

'Aye,' Hamish murmured soothingly, 'Dalmasca may have been under Empire's heel less time than Landis, but she suffered harshly while she was.'

'Yeah,' Vaan agreed lightly twisting sharply on his metal heel so that the edge squeaked grindingly on the dark, glassy stone of the floor. Penelo winced at the teeth itching noise and Vaan was sure, as he pivoted to face the table that Basch almost smiled. 'But see, I don't feel that way anymore.'

He shrugged casually and let those words sink in. It was easy, really, shaking off a painful past, because he knew the future was a bright one. If all he did all day long forever on until died was harbour old grudges and grief, well, that wasn't even living – and that was no way to honour Reks memory. Life, Vaan believed, was about striving for happiness, his and everybody else's.

'I was onboard Bahamut; me and Pen,' he nodded to Penelo, 'We saw what kind of monster Vayne was, and we helped take him down.'

Vaan's eyes fixed on Larsa and he pointed for dramatic emphasis, 'And so did he. Larsa didn't have to do anything for us, but he did. He travelled with Ashe and the rest of us to Mount Bur-Omisace and he asked the Gran Kiltias to make Ashe queen – so that Dalmasca could be free again. Larsa did that. Larsa fought his own brother because it was the _right _thing to do for everyone_._'

Larsa was blushing again once Vaan had finished, and behind his back Basch gave Vaan just the slightest nod of his head in thanks. Penelo's eyes were a soft weight upon Vaan that he felt more than saw. Vaan stared at all the golden haired men looking uncomfortable around the table. 'So, see, I just don't understand why any of you can think that Larsa Solidor doesn't keep his word.'

'You are naïve boy,' Arno Ipstein said, 'The Emperor boy is but one head of a lying Hydra; the Empire knows well how to deceive those foolish enough to trust.'

Vaan looked unsmilingly at the man.

'I'm not naïve,' He said and there was a quality of hardness in his voice then that belied the innocent, vacuous exterior. Vaan was a veteran of many, many battles and a soldier who had never once won his country's armour. He had measured his own valour in the power of his hope and the courage of those he loves. He is not naïve, he thinks; he simply refuses to believe in cynical lies.

'My brother was made a traitor so that he could spread the Empire's lies. He died in terror and pain and I lost the only family I had.' Vaan pointed to Penelo, 'She lost all her brothers because of the Imperials; we were made to live under the streets of our own home and steal to survive.'

Vaan continued to stare at Arno without blinking, 'I've been to Nabudis; I watched the Eighth Fleet explode. I fought the undying on Bahamut – I am not _naïve. _I've seen cruelty and evil and I know it doesn't have a nationality – it is everywhere. And so is goodness. There is goodness in Archadia._' _

Vaan can't be sure but he thinks that he sees Larsa whisper "thank you", to him as he sits, pretty much ignored for the moment, behind the huge table.

Penelo stepped lightly up beside Arno and her voice is soft and sweet but strong as steel as she speaks.

'We fought with our queen to win back our home. Ashe lost her father, her husband, her throne – the Empire made her uncle declare her dead and she had to live in sewers – but she was able to trust Larsa all the same, even knowing he was a Solidor. Ashe knew that the Empire, that Archadia, was more than just bad men like Vayne. If our queen can forgive – can look beyond her anger - why can't you?'

Hamish Fon Denbak was smiling and so was Basch. Larsa cleared his throat rather sharply, but the blue eyed look he shot to Vaan and Penelo was almost painfully grateful.

'Ahem, gentleman please; let this not be about the past, but instead the future. Archadia is prepared to pledge to support the restoration of Landis – and extend the hand of friendship to the Republic from here-on-in.'

Larsa pushed the peace accord across the table to the Landissian side again, 'The Empire wants no more war, no more useless bloodshed. The Empire does not want to see anymore barefoot refugees huddled at the steps of Bur-Omisace.'

Something dark and sad crossed Larsa's features as he remembered that shocking scene from a year ago – maybe the first time he had really believed all the bad things he had been told about the Empire he loved. The boy cleared his throat and looked up calmly.

'We ask only that Landis lays down her arms posed against the Empire and accepts our peace with her own in turn.'

No one said anything for a long time, Larsa's fingers trembled on the papers of the peace accord, 'Please, my good sirs, let us have peace now.'

Arno sneers, 'We offered no more than friendship to the Empire before and she sent her soldiers to rape our women and burn our capital to the ground. Dalmasca's queen might be fool enough to forget, but we shall not.'

Penelo stared at Vaan and he could see the helpless anger in her eyes; this was wrong. This was all wrong. Vaan knew, of course he knew, that the Empire had a lot to be sorry for – but what was the point of hating them when Larsa was trying to make things right? Who did that really help, huh? If all Dalmasca or Landis did was hate and mistrust the Empire then sooner or later Larsa would stop trying to do the right thing and then where would they all be? Back to war, that's where, and it would be people like Reks and Penelo's brothers who would pay for all this wounded pride.

It would be people like he and Penelo who suffered – people who don't get to have a voice in stupid meetings like this one. Vaan hated even thinking about it; hated thinking about being powerless to stop people like the Arno Ipsteins and Grigoris in Ivalice destroying peace before it had the chance to grow. He glared down at his boots.

There had to be something he could do.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Strahl's Berth**

Fran seems alarmed, 'Balthier, you are well?'

He almost smiles. It is almost laughable that his closest confidante, his dearest Fran, can only equate his well being with his grooming; for what a shallow cad that makes of him. He loves his white embroidered shirts, his stiff vests, his worked leather trousers; he loves fine fabrics and clean linens and he will always strive for sartorial pre-eminence, but for the gods own sake, he is more than a sodding white shirt and a close shave.

Isn't he?

He remembers shattering on the banks of a crashing river. He remembers falling through wet and weeping clouds to unforgiving earth. He remembers despair; despair and pain and loneliness. He was so alone and he died, _he died_, and no one was there. He remembers falling and there was no one to catch him.

He was so alone and he died. How does one pretend that such a thing did not happen? How does he crawl back into an old costume that brought him precious little joy before after what he has experienced? How can he be as he was?

_Fool of a pirate: Ffamran was coward – but Balthier was worse; less even than air. _

Balthier covers his face in his long fingered hands and squeezes his eyes closed, trying to see through the blackness of his lids. I died and now I am alive; I am alive. I am alive and I know who I am. I know who I am –or do I?

Do I want to be that man again? Is it even my choice to make?

Balthier staggered to his feet with a grunt of effort. The Moogles stop their cheerful prattle and Fran is at his side in an instance. Her eyes bleed concern; he can almost taste her worry. What have I done to you, Fran? He wonders for the first time instantly contrite. I thought you had left me, and I was wrong. Balthier does not know if he should apologise for this. He is in uncharted territory here; he has never bothered to care before. Still he has to say something.

'I should shave.' He says.

Fran blinks at him watching him the way one might carefully watch a wandering lunatic or a potentially hostile passing fiend. Balthier curses himself silently.

Oh well done, man, he thinks, that was _masterfully_ done. You are truly eloquence incarnate.

Why is it that every word out of his mouth is so profoundly inadequate? Where has his previous capacity for words gone? Or is it merely the fact that the words do not exist to express what he feels right now?

He remembers dying; he remembers despair.

Fran watches him and she seems so tired, so worn. 'Balthier?'

Balthier sighs. He really doesn't care if he looks like the lowest tramp in Old Archades right now. He's bloody well alive and that's enough. It's enough to be alive and not broken, but he senses now, that while it is enough for him, it is not enough for Fran. He wants to please Fran (doesn't he always?) and Fran expects a clean shirt, a close shave and a properly coiffed and bejewelled dandy to prance and dance at her side without a care in the world. He owes that to her at the very least.

'I am going to shave and change.' He says resolutely.

He remembers despair; he remembers loneliness. He remembers falling and breaking and he remembers dying.

Fran moves faster than his tired eyes can catch. She clasps his face in both of her large hands; she tilts his chin up so she can pierce his soul through his eyes. He lets her look her fill because if she can tell him what it is he is feeling he would very much appreciate it.

I died. I died and I was so bloody scared and so damned alone. He thinks: There was nothing left and the despair -gods the despair – you cannot know what it is to die as I have done, and then live to tell of it.

Moments pass and he studies Fran as she studies him. She is different, he knows this immediately. Something has happened and when he looks into Fran's adored, beautiful almond tilted eyes now he sees more of _her _in those depths than he has ever seen before. Fran is Fran but he does not see the shadow of Golmore's blasted taint in her gaze now as he always has before. He does not see the haunting of her sister Jote's condemnation. He does not see Fran's fears; it is just Fran inside. He thinks that he has never realised before just how beautiful she is when she is not ashamed.

'Hello Fran,' he says because he thinks such momentous change should be recognised and he knows that it is a daft thing to say, but as daftness seems all he is capable of right now it will have to suffice. 'You are looking especially beautiful today.'

* * *

**707 O.V: Landia**

Vaan looked up and met his best friend's eyes as it seemed like peace was going to fall by the way side of diplomacy. Penelo's eyes seemed to say to Vaan: we have to do something; this isn't right. Vaan nodded and ambled back to the table.

Balthier had told him once that people with power had it only because the powerless people let them. Balthier had told him that it took an army of cruel men to sack a city but it only took one good man to do nothing and it opened the door wide to those monsters.

"Subjugation can only exist while there are people to subjugate Vaan; tyrants use order as their shield, and good men think it wrong to stand in opposition to written law. This is the way of Ivalice – but it is _not _the way of sky pirates."

Vaan thinks to himself then: what would Balthier do, if he was here? Vaan picks up one of the quill pens waiting on the table to be used in the signing. He pushes the peace accord across the table to Arno Ipstein and holds out the pen.

'Yeah, well,' he speaks while trying to figure out what he's thinking, 'if you don't sign it, all your people, all the normal people of Landis, they're going to know who's fault it is that they don't have peace with the Empire and that they don't have freedom. They'll know that you wouldn't give them the peace they want because you were too busy wanting to be important.'

Scarred Grigori leapt from his chair again and rounded on Vaan, who watched him with blank expression. 'You dare threaten us?'

'Yeah,' Vaan said in bored voice, 'I do.'

Vaan rubbed at his neck and scuffed his feet on the squeaky floor ignoring Grigori completely. Vaan had fought Espers and Undying evil Emperors, angry blond men with scars were nothing compared to that.

Balthier had told him once, a man can kill you Vaan, but he can never beat you unless you let him. If you would be a man of account, then lift your bloody chin and meet the world on your own terms. Never let the bastards know they've hurt you and you won't be hurt.

Vaan casually looked up then to trail his eyes disinterestedly over the filigreed ceiling mouldings. He didn't bother to look at any of the Landissians at all.

'See,' Vaan began piecing his thoughts together slowly. 'It was six people that brought down Vayne Solidor; two orphans, two sky pirates, a knight and a princess.' Vaan looked back at the Landissians then and there was power in his eyes; power that had nothing whatsoever to do with upbringing or lineage or education and everything to do with courage and integrity.

'But that's not who did it really. It was just Ashe, Basch, Balthier, Fran, Penelo and Vaan: we're like everyone else - except that we _did_ something when it mattered.'

Vaan poked Grigori in the chest and Penelo, at his side, lifted her hands in preparation to cast an immobilisation spell if she had to.

'Landis has a right to be free and you should be doing whatever you can to make that happen. No one cares about the past - people want to have a future and if you don't let your people have a good one _I'm_ going to make sure that everyone in Ivalice knows that you are all a bunch of cowards.'

Every Landissian at the table except Hamish leapt from his chair and started shouting. Larsa had his head in his hands in despair, but Basch stood casually by, pretending to cough into his gauntleted hand so no one could tell he was laughing.

'Cowards? You would call us cowards?' Grigori shouted. 'I am Grigori, son of Audiphur who was son of….'

'Yeah,' Vaan drawled blandly glancing at Penelo who twinkled spells between her fingers and nodded her head in agreement. 'And I'm Vaan, and that's Penelo, and we do call you cowards; because you are.'

'How boy?' Arno demanded, 'How would you do such a thing as you threaten? What power do _you_ have to make such threats?'

Vaan grinned he'd been hoping someone would ask, 'Like I said, I'm _Vaan_.' He jerked his head to the side and included Penelo, 'This is what we do; we look out for the little people.'

Vaan and Penelo exchanged grins, 'And anyway, all I'd need to do is let Balthier know all about you and…..'

Vaan paused and Penelo stepped forward as if they'd planned this. She raised a finger to her neck and drew it across her throat sharply grinning wickedly as she did so. It was a pretty good display.

'The leading man could bring you all down with a snap of his fingers.' Vaan and Penelo both snapped their fingers simultaneously, 'And he'd do it because we _asked_ him to.'

Hamish Fon Denbak, still sitting at the table, burst out laughing then, a huge braying sound like a Lobo barking. Larsa hid a smile behind his white gloved hand and Basch seemed to have something stuck in his throat that meant he had to clear it a number of times; something that sounded a lot like laughter. The Landissians couldn't think of a thing to say. They looked stunned. All of them except Hamish; he knew exactly what to say.

'Aye,' he laughed heartily, 'Ffamran has taught you two well, and no mistake.'

Hamish reached across the table drew the peace accord to him, picked up the quill dunked it into the ink pot and scrawled his signature across the page.

He looked up across the table to Larsa and smiled, 'Peace at last.'

Vaan and Penelo kept their grins on the inside as the other Landissians signed on the dotted line grudgingly; both Dalmascans hoped that Fran and Balthier would be pleased with all they'd learned from them.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Strahl's Berth**

Fran blinks at him and releases his face in her surprise and Balthier misses the cool firmness of her palms against his cheeks and the tickle of her nails against his temples almost immediately.

Balthier steps back and scratches at his cheeks turning towards his ship's dark interior.

'Trouble Fran?' he queries lightly making an effort to reconnect with the Ivalice turning all around him. This daftness and strange lethargy is hardly befitting the leading man. It is poor show indeed.

'No doubt Ivalice has fallen into disrepute while I have been otherwise indisposed, hmm?' he dredges up a smirk and wonders why the old performance seems so stilted all of a sudden, 'Matters to attend to and such like?'

Fran nods mutely but he does not think it is inclination that binds her tongue so much as she does not know what to say. He smirks again, one foot on the first step ascending to the Strahl's hatch.

'Well then, the leading man is needed, hmm?' The habitual lines seem a little easier now, his tongue unbinding from its knots. He tosses his head proudly and digs around in the shattered remnants of his old act for familiar arrogance.

'I dare say we shall have some manner of company or calamity befall us presently, and I would be remiss to look anything but my best.'

Fran was watching him intently, a slight frown furrowing her brow. The shock of genuine expression on her face delights Balthier even as it disconcerts him. Perhaps he is not the only one feeling like a stranger in his own skin, hmm? Perhaps he and Fran shall have to rediscover the other while they come to know themselves anew?

I remember dying Fran, but I wonder, what has changed you so?

Balthier drags himself up the steps to the Strahl without a backward glance. He touches the scorch marked walls of his best girl. He caresses familiar contours and cold curves and he communes sorrow and repentance through the flats of his palms laid against her metal skin. I'll make you beautiful again my girl, he promises her, I will make you the envy of all; you will fly farther and faster than any other airship in Ivalice.

Finally he reaches his own cabin. Someone has tidied away for him the evidence of the wreckage he had made of his own existence. This makes him smirk; he does not know what is worse, the knowledge of his own descent, or the fact that nameless others contrive to try and hide the fact that he is, alas, just a mortal man like any other.

Still he remembers dying, and he does not want to forget it. He would be a lesser man were he to do so, he is sure of this, and the gods only know he is bloody tired of being a lesser man than he could be. He is tired of clipping his own wings; of inviting his own defeat. He is tired of being lonely and frightened. He is tired of the mess he has made of his own life.

He finds his mother-of-pearl inlaid straight razor, his whetstone, and his shaving balm and foam waiting for him on the rim of the tiny sink bolted to the wall of his cabin. The mirror is also waiting. He wonders what it will show him.

He sheds the heavy coat and the white shirt and can only stare in mute shock at the Viera palm print emblazoned across his chest. He bursts out laughing and has to lean against the rim of the sink for balance and struggle for breath when laughter makes his chest hurt.

'What the bloody blue blazes is this then?' he queries more amused than anything else, 'Fran, my dear, you have some _explaining_ to do.'

He is still snickering delightedly as he readies the razor and leans down to face the mirror. He looks into his own eyes in reflection. He looks a worse state than even he imagined and he winces in shame.

'Good gods man, and to think, someone could have _seen_ you looking this awful.'

Then again, by his reckoning he has likely been dead (or at least performing a close facsimile of such) for a number of days now, chances are very good that someone, or multiple someones, have already seen him looking less than his best. Balthier sighs. Once upon a time such a thought would have humiliated and appalled him (it would have smacked of weakness and vulnerability) now the notion can do naught but illicit a faint tinge of wry embarrassment.

Resurrecting oneself was somewhat akin to waking up the morning after a night of excessive revelry to discover that one has somehow been ordained a Kiltia and, possibly simultaneously, committed the crime of bigamy with a duke's daughter and a seamstress, all without conscious recollection. It was something of a rude shock to the system.

(Balthier smirks; that had been a twenty-first birthday not to be forgotten. Fran had been singularly unimpressed with him when he had explained the difficulty he found himself in that very same morning after; still the duke had been a good sport about it all, bless him).

Balthier shaves with vigour and aplomb, smiling at the memory, and he begins to feel indescribably better.

In short order his own face re-emerges from the forest of revolting facial hair that had sprouted over his cheeks and jaw like some sort of viral infection and this only enhances his rising spirits. Re-shaping his sideburns is a work of concentrated art that will take more time than he can spare now, but he makes the best of a bad job and decides that he looks at least somewhat like himself again now.

He notes that he has lost an ear-ring and so exchanges surviving silver half-twist for a pair of small gold hoops, one for each ear, which hug the lobe and don't dangle, but will suffice for the time being.

Next he consults the contents of his wardrobe critically. The thought of binding himself into his usual back-lacing vest strikes him as a little too much like masochism for his tastes considering his injuries, therefore he plucks out a particularly favoured white linen shirt with tasteful black work down the flanks and around the cuffs and collar, donning a beautifully embroidered tailored high collared jacket to cover it.

The jacket's inner lining is silk and the collar and cuffs have a ruff of softest sable fur. It is a favoured jacket and he smiles to pull it over his shoulders. Damaged leather trousers give way to supple best wear, and he pulls full boots on over those trousers, snapping the silver buckles together as they run up the sides.

He sighs with satisfaction; it is good to be home. He thinks he can be himself again now.

He remembers dying; he remembers despair. He remembers loneliness and sorrow; he remembers pain and falling. He remembers breaking. He will not forget any of it. He knows this.

Yet as he walks back to his mirror, wiping off the condensation, and peers into the lens he still smiles at his own smirking face; he laughs at his own arrogant slant of the head and the deliberate secrets in his eyes. He sneers at his own contradictions even as he celebrates them.

He remembers dying but now he is living.

_Fool of a pirate._

Well perhaps; show me the man who has never played the fool and I shall show you a liar.

He looks himself in the eyes, 'Well,' he says musingly, 'Who shall I play today?'

Silently he adds, for the benefit of passing eagles and paternal ghosts: I know who I am - I am whoever I chose to be.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-Two: 707 O.V: The Moors of Mara**

It swept down from a bank of darkest storm cloud like a great bird of prey; an airship of darkest ebony and purest ivory, unlike any vessel Nono or the other Moogles had ever seen.

'Kupo!' Nono had time to squeak before the ground around his feet erupted and the corpses of dead rodents and foraging creatures of the moors burst from their dark and earthy resting places to attack the Moogles.

'Captain!'

Nono cried out as lancing swathes of dark magick lashed out at him and his fellows, and the Moogles, prudent creatures one and all, scattered and took refuge from the attack as best they could.

Nono hid under the over-turned cooking pot in the ashes of the doused camp fire as, from the dark and frightening airship, a troop of zombie soldiers and skeletal knights shambled forward in bone clicking, putrid stinking formation to besiege the Strahl.

Fran, awaking from her own slumber upon hearing the opening salvo of the attack, fought as well as she could and dispatched many of the undead foes. Master Balthier, coaxed to sleep by a sleeping spell, remained oblivious tucked into his bunk, as Fran was felled by a fearsome blast of dark magick.

The dead man walking, Eraldo Lumineres, walked forward, wielding an ornate scythe and a glass tube filled with some manner of unpleasant looking gas, which shimmered with fey lights and dangerous sparks inside the glass.

While Nono watched Eraldo grabbed up a thick handful of Fran's hair as she tried to gather her wits, wrenched her head up and back, while uncorking the tube of gas. Nono's sensitive nose twitched and his whiskers shivered as he detected the unmistakable heavy taint of nethicite maligned Mist.

Fran jerked her head away, trying not to inhale the rising Mist, but Eraldo forced the tube under her nose and grasped her head until Fran began to seize with the effects of the Mist and succumbed to unconsciousness.

'Bring me the pirate,' Eraldo demanded of his attendant undead, 'For I am master of the dead and he is of mine own now. He shall not escape me.'

Nono quivered in fear and hid under the cooking pot. He closed his eyes and covered them with his paws. There was nothing he could do and soon the evil ship was gone and with it, the captain and mistress Fran.

* * *

**707 O.V: Bridge of the Ifrit**

Penelo and Vaan stood together by the safety rail before the huge swathe of windows facing out of the front of Ifrit's bridge. They were trying not to stand out, which was rather hard as they were the only Dalmascan sort-of sky pirates on the whole ship and two of only a few people not covered head to toe in armour to boot. Still the two orphans were rather good at being unobtrusive.

'Vaan,' Penelo hissed at her partner, best friend, and sort-of paramour and jabbed him hard in the ribs, 'don't stare – it's rude.'

'Hey,' Vaan rubbed at his ribs in aggrieved fashion and frowned at Penelo. He glanced back up to the raised dais in the centre of the bridge where Larsa, Basch, and another unknown and fully armoured soldier stood talking. 'It's not like they don't know we're listening in,' he pointed out.

Penelo shot him a venomous look, 'Have some class, Vaan – and try to be subtle, alright?'

Vaan blinked at her dubiously. 'Have some class? You sound like Balthier.' He grinned and Penelo stamped on his foot while maintaining her false vigil staring out of the windows.

'So?' she groused, 'It's still true. He'd eavesdrop way more discreetly anyway.'

Vaan snorted, 'Yeah right, Balthier'd just barge right up there and join in – like _he'd_ care about trying to be discrete.'

Penelo considered this and then decided that Vaan was right but……'You're not Balthier.'

'I know,' Vaan stated with put upon patience, 'That's why I'm not going up there, and just trying to listen in from here.' He gave Penelo a pointed look, 'Can't do that if you keep nagging at me though.'

Penelo clearly didn't like being accused of being a nag but she didn't say anything more and instead sniffed and turned away from him. Vaan winced; Penelo would make him pay for this later. Still for the moment he could listen in, in peace.

'My Lord Emperor, your honour Gabranth, Admiral Lydon of the navy cruiser Valefor has sent message that there is a large fleet of presumed pirate vessels amassing just north of Balfonheim waters, he fears they mean to storm the Balfonheim blockade and sack the port.' The unknown helmeted soldier spoke in a rush.

Basch, disguised as his dead brother, was flipping through a budget of papers come through the Ifrit's communication array, 'We have a telegram from the light air cruiser Ixion of the third fleet; dispatched on regular patrol of the Cerobi Steppes. She reports that there are increasing numbers of civilians leaving the port of Balfonheim, many with their possessions in carts or barrows, risking the fiends of the steppes, and seemingly fleeing the port. Balfonheim has also closed down the aerodrome and shut up tight the sea walls.' The blind face of Gabranth's horned helm lifted towards his Emperor, 'The port prepares for siege by air and sea, it would seem.'

'Do we know the reason for this?' Larsa demanded, 'Do we know the providence of these sea vessels amassing on the coast – could they be from the port or do they hail from elsewhere?'

'My lord Emperor, Admiral Lydon reports that the unknown ships refuse to respond to close hail, and the port of Balfonheim has shut down all communication channels as well. Lydon states that the ships do not fly Balfonheim colours and he has not seen any of them docked in the port before now.' The anonymous armoured soldier, who looked from his gilt work to be a lower Judge, gave a jerky salute as he imparted this information.

Larsa wrapped a hand tightly around the pendant about his neck, 'Balfonheim has been under sanction for months. In that time the trading vessels, both of air and sea, native to the port have offered no real opposition to the Empire. They have abided by the blockade and the sky patrols, even while protesting their innocence of all wrong-doing. Why have things suddenly changed now?'

'Balthier.'

Vaan was as surprised as the Emperor, the Magister, and lower Judge to realise he had spoken aloud, and to find himself ambling up to the dais to join the conversation. He could feel all activity in the bridge stop as every Archadia military personnel present watched in a mixture of amazement and dismay as an unranked foreigner addressed their exalted Emperor with total lack of deference. Penelo closed her eyes and swallowed down some rather salty epithets before ascending the dais herself – for where Vaan went, so to did she; even if she thought it was a really stupid idea.

'It's got to be about Balthier,' Vaan was saying, 'I mean Rikken had put a bounty on his head and there was a pirate war to be the next pirate king. Balthier was trying to stop it when….' Vaan came to an incontinent stop unable to finish that sentence. It was alright though because everyone knew what had happened to Balthier and Vaan was certain that Balthier would be back to normal by the time they returned to the Strahl anyway.

Basch, pretending to be Gabranth, turned his body so it was obvious that he was addressing Vaan, 'I knew of the bounty, but not the pirate war. What is this nonsense?' he growled and it was impossible to hear or detect any trace of Basch whatsoever behind his brother's dark and heavy mantle.

Vaan was unperturbed however. His motto in life was in for a gil out for a fortune, after all. He would plough on regardless. 'Yeah, Anna who told us about that, she heard it from a pirate….and that's the reason Eraldo Lumineres took me prisoner.'

Vaan rubbed the back of his neck and scuffed his feet. He was a bit embarrassed about being ambushed and captured still, even though he knew it had happened to Balthier a lot. In fact Balthier always said the mark of a successful pirate was the number of times he had successfully escaped from an enemy.

'See, all the pirates think that if they take out Balthier, who's like the next in line for chief pirate now Reddas is gone, then they become a shoe-in for the job of pirate king.' Vaan finished his explanation.

Larsa's eyes widened, 'Then, one could extrapolate from this, that if it became public knowledge that Balthier was….._incapacitated_….and might remain so for considerable time, then killing him would become a redundant measure. These rival factions of pirates would have little recourse but to wage pitched battles against each other until a 'king' was declared between the eventual victors.'

Penelo gasped as an idea occurred to her, 'I bet that's why Rikken did it,' she pressed a hand to her mouth. 'I bet Rikken knew that there'd be all this fighting and that it might destroy Balfonheim, so he made Balthier a target to avoid it.' Penelo twisted her hands together, 'I bet he thought that Balthier would be able to deal with any pirates that came against him like he did Eraldo and that they'd eventually give up when they realised what they were up against.'

Larsa thought about this, 'Then by that logic, Balfonheim is a victim in this strife, not a propagator?' he frowned, 'No, that is not right, for if Rikken established Balthier as a stalking horse, as you suggest, then his action instigated this uprising whether he willed it so or not - all he did was try to shift the epicentre away from Balfonheim.'

'The ploy of a pirate and a knave,' Gabranth growled in clear condemnation, 'To set up an ally to take one's own fall is the mark of a coward.'

'Rikken's alright,' Vaan argued staunchly, 'He's like Reddas; he wants to protect Balfonheim and all the free people living there and he wants to do it without mindless killing.' Vaan rubbed at his chin, still trying to perfect the gesture, 'He doesn't like all these new pirates any more than we do. We all saw that in Lemures; Rikken helped us out with the Aegyl.'

Gabranth cleared his throat, a gesture that was more Basch than the other and shifted his body to face his Emperor. 'My lord, it may be prudent that we make all speed to the Strahl's berth before taking any action regarding Balfonheim.' He suggested mildly even though his voice was a maligned growl due to the helmet.

'Yeah,' Vaan agreed before Larsa could get the words out, 'If Balthier's awake already he'll know what to do – he might even know who these enemy pirates are and what they want.'

'There is that,' Basch/Gabrath conceded almost ruefully, 'But more to the point, if these rogue pirates suspect that Balthier is….beyond raising opposition…..they may be aware that Fran is not. She could be in danger from these rebel pirates, by association.'

The knuckles of Larsa's hand clenched around his pendant had gone white and bloodless with the grip he had on the twinned serpents of his family's crest. He nodded his head once.

'Make haste for the Strahl.' He ordered and the Ifrit lurched forward at once.

* * *

**707 O.V: Unknown Location**

The first indication Balthier had that something was decidedly not right was when he came to and discovered slime covered damp stone formed his pillow and thick, cloying Mist was his blanket.

He knew his best girl was in a bad way but he was damn sure the Strahl hadn't been sporting slime the last time he was conscious.

'Hmm….?' Moving was difficult, his chest ached abominably, but this at least was logical. The dulled lacquer mosaic tile walls swimming before his eyes, the dripping wetness of the atmosphere, damp and fetid, was less explicable. This was most emphatically not the Strahl.

'What the buggery…?'

He coughed hoarsely, his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth and that odd cottony feeling swathing his senses indicative of heavy Mist, tweaked something in his memory. He felt he should know where he was even if he didn't know how he came to be here.

Mist, evident mass destruction, slime, faded grandeur……..what did this remind him of?

A banshee shambled past him down the shattered corridor he found himself lying in and Balthier blinked in surprise and dawning realisation. He swore with passion and the bansee turned to stare at him through gaping black holes instead of eyes before shambling off. Balthier watched it disappear around the corner before cursing some more.

Balthier knew precisely where he was now. Oh yes, indeed.

'Oh this is not bloody right at all.'

Balthier never whined, so the plaintive lilt to his voice could not be considered whiny - perhaps, dismay was a better descriptor; or merely a certain fatalistic exhaustion? His short respite on the cusp of death had allowed him to forget just how ridiculously complicated his life could be.

'Nabudis – what, in bloody blue blazes, am I doing in sodding Nabudis?'

Balthier sat up and looked around him a little more keenly. There could be no doubt about it, he was inside the former palace of Nabradia; he could still make out the broken majesty of the mosaic friezes covering the walls in beige and cream and pale golden brown. They just didn't make mosaics like this anywhere else in Ivalice.

(Not that there was anyone making any here in the Necrohol _now_ either - unless the zombies had an unknown artistic bent hidden under all the bloodlust and wet rot.)

Balthier swallowed hoarsely. Of all the places he did not want to wake up and find himself Nabudis ranked fairly high on the list. 'Fran?' he croaked, looking for his partner to perform her primary duty of explaining the insanity of existence to him.

She wasn't here, he somehow already knew that. Almost without conscious awareness his hand travelled to his chest. The blazing pain seemed to have picked up an almost rhythmic cadence. His skin felt tight over his breastbone. This situation was wrong on too many levels to quantify. Balthier almost wondered if he was even truly awake.

Or maybe he was dead again? That would go a long way to explaining all this.

'Bah - life was a lot simpler when I was dead.' He muttered darkly.

Balthier stumbled to his feet swaying; he didn't appear to be chained or restrained in anyway and so he braced one hand against the tiled wall and staggered down the uneven, pitted, and slippery corridor in the direction of the passing banshee, reasoning that it probably knew its way around the place better than he did.

A skeletal night dragged itself up out of a hole in the floor before him as Balthier stumbled out of the corridor into a larger room with several other corridors darting off from it and a collapsed stairway that had once led to a mezzanine floor long since fallen in completely, in one corner. The remnant of Nabradian finery, furnishings wreathed in gold leaf and precious gems, and even the rags of a once grand tapestry wall hanging, lay in mouldering heaps spilled out across the floor.

More so than the hideous walking dead (which could be found almost anyway in Ivalice, truth told) it was the remnants of Nabradia's lost majesty that truly quelled Balthier. To think, his father's egotism had wrought all this. It boggled the mind.

Still the violent dead were worth some note, especially their tendency to pop up unexpected right in front of one's feet.

Balthier watched this particular homicidally inclined skeleton pull itself together almost nose to nose with him; he had no hope of running or defending himself. He was unarmed and physically weak as a Giza rabbit right now. He could do bugger all to save himself. It occurred to Balthier that it would be bloody laughable if he ended up dying here after all. Laughable and completely improbable – how the bloody hell did he even come to be in Nabudis to begin with?

The skeleton was some sort of mage; it was wreathed in a pulsing black-red aura and carried a ceremonial staff. The deep thrum of a breaking spell was the only warning Balthier had that he was about to die. He waited, there was sod all else to do and dying was becoming something of a habit for him lately in any respect.

And here we bloody go again, he thought tiredly.

A swath of Dark magick rose up from his feet to engulf him then; it swallowed him from toe to crown and Balthier waited with strange equanimity for the pain only to discover as the cloud of angry dark magick dissipated harmlessly, that there was no pain. In fact he had no reaction to the miasma of malevolent magick whatsoever.

'Well bugger me.' He breathed out staring at the skeleton, which despite having no flesh with which to form expression nevertheless seemed as bemused as Balthier himself.

For a moment Balthier and the eyeless skeleton stared at each other in companionable surprise, then just as the skeleton clicked its joints together to spear him with the staff, Balthier reached out with both hands, forced open the skeleton's mouth with his fingers, and wrenched its head off by gripping its upper jaw and giving one good wrench.

The skeleton collapsed into so much blackened bone and Balthier found himself with a piece of dark magicite and half a skull gripped in his hands, for his troubles. He decided not to worry about the strangeness of it all as he threw down the skull, pocketed the dark magicite, and scooped up the staff (beggars without weaponry could not afford to be choosy after all).

'Right, I've had enough of this.'

Balthier considered the three passageways before him. He had no idea where in the palace he was, and he had less idea of where he aught go next. This made orientating himself and choosing a direction both a matter of random whim and somewhat difficult for that very fact. He cocked his head to the side and pondered a moment.

'Hmm….Einy, meany, miney, moe; Fran where _did_ you go?'

He chose the left path, for no other reason than a strange inkling and tightness in his chest. The flesh over the wound site itched horribly; a strange burning tightness like his skin was shrinking. He rubbed at his chest absently with the hand not clutching the skeleton's staff. A strange conviction that Fran was in danger prickled at the back of his mind, spurring him onwards.

A trio of banshee were waiting for Balthier when he rounded a Mist choked corner and he came to an abrupt halt. Matters could be about to get rather unpleasant rather quickly he decided (mostly for Balthier himself). He spread his stance for balance, while eyeing the trio of banshee hags, and brought the rusty staff up before his body knowing it was futile even as he moved to defend himself.

The banshees just looked at him with leprous, sloughing faces, wet and dripping and gut-churningly hideous. They did not move to attack. Balthier blinked and took one cautious step forward, followed by another. Inch by inch he moved forward until he was level with the fiends. The banshees watched him vacantly as Balthier sidled by them, back against the wall and staff held out before him.

Nothing happened; no horrendous wailing, no screaming, no flesh rending claws diving for his face – absolutely bugger all. It was as though the banshees simply did not recognise his presence as prey whatsoever.

Maybe he really was dead – and he just didn't realise it?

Balthier passed the trio without incident but he was sweating ice water and twitchy with pent up adrenaline by the time he had. What the bloody hell was going on? Was he actually here, in Nabudis, or was this some grand and all-encompassing delusion? Was he, in fact, dead and burning for his sins and all this was no more than a simulacrum of damnation; painted in the shades of Nethicite devoured Nabradia?

And more importantly still: where in the blazes was Fran?

He must have spoken that last part out loud for quite abruptly one of the banshee hags jerked a half rotted arm out from her stooped and Mist deformed body and pointed down the next bend in the corridor.

Had Balthier been a lesser man he might have continued to gape in slack-jawed incomprehension for several more minutes at this development, but such behaviour was beneath the dignity of the leading man, so Balthier forced a rod of steel down his spine, clamped his jaws tight shut, stiffened his upper lip, and gave the hag a nodding bow.

'Much obliged madam.'

The three banshees continued to watch him without eyes and Balthier forced himself to turn his back on them and walk calmly down the corridor in the direction the lead hag had pointed out to him. His chest burned and his head was almost reeling with the surreal inexplicability of all this. Yet he kept his strides measures and his head up all the same.

_Where are you Fran?_

Balthier waited until he had rounded the corner of the passageway out of sight of the banshees before he started running as fast as his shaking legs would carry him.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Moors of Mara – Strahl's Berth**

Vaan and Penelo started running as soon as they saw the scattered and sprawled forms of twenty Moogles arrayed over the grasses of the moor where the Strahl was still docked.

Nono and one or two of the other Moogles was slowly and dazedly getting to their feet and Penelo slid on her knees to a halt in the grass, healing light dancing from her fingertips.

'What happened?' Vaan demanded, drawing his Blood sword from the sheath and looking around him wildly. Stunned Moogles and the scuffed out remnants of a cooking fire was the only evidence that something was amiss, but it was enough.

'Kupo, kupo, kupo….' Nono was babbling, 'couldn't stop them, kupo…..dead things from the ground, kuop-po…..they came out of nowhere. Master Balthier and Mistress Fran were sleeping and then…..and then……oh kupo……he has taken them!'

'Who?' Vaan demanded, 'What was it, what attacked you?'

One of the other Moogle's who looked strangely familiar to Vaan though admittedly all Moogles looked alike to him, sat up rubbing its head and blinking big dark and liquid eyes.

'Ooff, kupo; it was a scary hume with violet eyes. He had skeletons with him and lots of Mist. He used Mist and magick to hurt Mistress Fran while master Balthier was sleeping. He took them both in a big scary looking airship…..kupo-po there was nothing we could do, kupo!'

Vaan and Penelo stared at each other aghast, 'Eraldo Lumineres,' Vaan hissed through his teeth, 'It has to be him.'

'But why?' Penelo whispered dismayed, 'Why attack Balthier now, especially if….' If Balthier was dead, Penelo thought but refused to say aloud.

Vaan turned Nono, 'He woke up, didn't he?' Vaan demanded, 'Balthier was awake again when Eraldo attacked, wasn't he?'

Nono shook his head, 'No kupo he was asleep. Mistress Fran made him rest after he had had dinner and shaved kupo. His chest was paining him.'

'Had dinner and shaved?' Penelo felt a smile touch her lips, 'Then he _was_ better? He woke up and was better….before he went for a nap, I mean.'

'Oh,' Nono finally realised what the children meant, 'oh yes, kupo, the captain awoke from his long sleep. He was glad to see _us_, kupo!' Nono gestured to his cohort of Moogles proudly but almost immediately his pompom drooped. 'But we couldn't do anything to help them, kupo. Mistress Fran was so tired and the Mist was so nasty, kupo.'

Nono shook his head, 'Nasty Nabreus Mist it was; I know, my nose is good, kupo.'

The children stared at one another, 'Oh this is bad,' Vaan breathed out, 'This is really bad.'

* * *

**707 O.V: Necrohol of Nabudis**

A blade of phantom pain skewered Balthier through the chest a split second before he heard the almost feral scream. He staggered against the wall, bracing one arm against the slimy stone and clutching the other hand to his chest. He doubled over and dry heaved as scorching pain squeezed down upon his breastbone and the flesh across his chest crawled with agony.

Fran!

Balthier took off running, dropping the near useless staff and breaking into a sprint as if he hadn't spent the last eighty odd hours in a near death comatose state and didn't have an excruciating chest wound to contend with.

Blinded by pain and exertion he slipped on broken flooring and stumbled over piles of debris (and in one case a mouldering corpse just poking its head up through a hole in the floor – the head went one way and Balthier went sprawling in the other direction -it was the faster fiend dispatch he'd ever managed).

Every time Balthier fell he picked himself up and started running again without losing momentum; he was uniquely and completely focused solely upon the phantom whisper of Fran's pain locked inside his chest.

Labyrinthine corridors gave way in a blur of speed and Balthier didn't need to think about where he was going; it was as if the point of an internal compass inside his mind was guiding him. He knew instinctively where Fran was and was equally quite prepared to pass through solid stone wall that had survived the nethicite explosion if it came to it. Every particle of his being was focused on one thing and one thing only: finding Fran.

Fran was in pain – he could _feel _it. The mark of her hand over his heart was an ice-burning brand screaming through his nerves with her pain. He had to find her. Fast.

He collided with a shambolic gathering of rotting corpses as he came upon the dented but still solid ornate great doors at the end of the labyrinth.

'Move – out of the way!' Balthier demanded and was in too much haste to countenance the shock when they actually did as he commanded. He slammed his weight against the gold, brass, and jewel studded great doors and bounced back off painfully.

'Damn it!' He swore growing frantic and pounding his fists upon the door, 'I have to get in there.'

Fran was screaming and writhing in pain inside his head. He could taste the poison Mist of Nabudis burning in her lungs and sending her mind reeling into a pyrotechnic swirl of madness and fear. He could feel it in his own burning chest as she started to suffocate and convulse on cold stone floor. He smashed his fists against the door again and again. He had to get to her. He had to get her out – the Mist was going to kill them both.

From behind him a number of gangrenous rotting arms reached out to clasp his sleeves pulling him around to face a gathering of slack, dead and rotting visages. One of the zombies who still possessed working vocal cords and upper and lower jaws began to gurgle in a horrible parody of speech.

'Thhhhiiiiiissssss wayyyyyyyyyyyyy……'

Balthier's jaw dropped and he was too surprised to protest as he was pushed and pulled down a side passageway by a bevy of surprisingly helpful dead men.

* * *

**707 O.V: The Manse on Saccio Lane – Balfonheim**

'We have to do something!' Aeneas paced back and forth across the worn Nabradian woven carpet in the main study. 'We can't just sit here like lame ducks waiting for the vultures or the ruddy Imperials to blow us to kingdom come.'

Rikken, sitting on a wooden footstool across the room, his long legs sprawled before him, scratched under his eyepatch with the fingers of his left hand.

'Yeah an' what you propose we do then?' he asked blandly. 'Looks to me like we're right buggered whatever we do, now that Balthier's gone an' ruddy carked it on us.'

Raz nodded, the diminutive Bangaa have taken up a perch on the desk top, which was still kept in the order Reddas had left it but was now covered in a thick patina of dust to boot. 'Aye,' the Bangaa scoffed, 'right useless ace in the hole _he_ turned out t'be.'

'We don't need Balthier – he's not the only bloody pirate around you know.' Aeneas snapped. 'He's not what you think he is,' he added bitterly, 'he's no better than I am -or any of us.' Aeneas added swiftly.

Elza gave him a droll look from where she lounged across the chaise longue playing with the beads and gold disks threaded into her riotous mane of golden brown hair, 'Mos' o' the civilians are gone from the port,' she said sounding bored. 'In fact the bastard Imperial air patrol sent troops down to escort and protect 'em, along the way.' She paused, 'Good o' 'em I suppose.' She admitted with a shrug.

Aeneas stared at her in contempt, 'So now we're just going to sit here and wait for the war to start right over our bloody heads, are we?'

Elza looked back at him unfazed with golden eyes, 'We're not soldiers – if we come out fightin' the Empire's goin' t'shoot us down in flames before we can do 'owt to fight off the bastard jackals comin' for us.' She tilted her head and gave Aeneas a hard look, 'If I'm t'die, I'm to die, but I'll not go lookin' fo' it like a daft ruddy fool.'

'Aye,' Rikken said, 'if'n the bastards of either side come fer us in port, we got some surprises lined up fer 'em,' he and Raz exchanged a savage grin between them before Rikken shrugged with equanimity, 'other than that we bed in and wait - let the Imperial navy fight our battles for us if'n they're inclined.' He curled his lip flashing a mouthful of gold and silver, 'My days o' fightin' fer me damn fool life are done.'

Aeneas turned away from the three, twisting on his heel, he glared out of the large bay windows; out beyond the closed sea walls of the port and the horizon dotted with ships, none of which were friendly. His fingernails dug into the windowsill and his expression darkened.

'Well mine aren't,' he snapped whirling around again and stalking towards the study door, 'I'm not going to sit here and wait for the rebels or the Empire to besiege us.'

Elza watched him remotely, Rikken merely shrugged, and Raz pulled out a brace of cards for a hand of solitaire.

'Aye, well, nice knowin' yer,' Rikken called after him lazily as Aeneas strode angrily from the room and left the manse.

The port was derelict, empty; desolate. Everyone who could leave had fled because Balfonheim had never really been the den of thieves and pirates it pretended to be. Instead it was a ramshackle town full of ordinary men, women, and children, who just wanted to eek out a living from the sea or the sky and didn't want to lose all their wages to the Empire's deep pockets. There was something desperately sad about seeing the town abandoned and facing destruction and Aeneas hated it.

He stopped when he came to the panorama view overlooking the ocean just outside the Whitecap (which was so silent it was eerie). He stared up at the grey and angry sky and the gunmetal churning surf of the Naldoa.

'You'd better not be dead, yer ruddy selfish bastard.' Aeneas addressed himself to a man many, many miles away inland; a man who was probably beyond hearing him even if distance was not an issue. 'Because them lot are right, damn them -and damn you too - you're the only one who can fix this sodding mess.'

Aeneas shoved off from the promontory railings and started walking briskly over the empty boardwalk streets up to the Aerodrome. He might not be the man to fix all this but he could, _and he would_, do something. He couldn't let Balfonheim fall - for if he did, there would be no place left for a free man and wanderer to call his home.

'Right,' he muttered as he broke into the locked down aerodrome, 'if Balfonheim needs a king I'll just ruddy well have to go and fetch him then, won't I?'

And if he had to pierce the veil between life and death to find his former friend and then drag the bastard from death's clammy embrace himself, well, he figured that was only fair payback.

'Long live the king,' he scoffed with quiet bitterness, 'Long live the pirate Balthier.'

* * *

**707 O.V: The Necrohol of Nabudis**

Balthier was too preoccupied to worry about the state of his sleeves under the revolting run of zombie hands and this was something of a blessing in surprise as it also meant that he was too preoccupied simply trying not to whimper with pain to notice the noxious smell of decay and decomposition that clung to his escort of ambulatory corpses.

The shambling band of six or so zombies was joined by the three banshees he had previously encountered and a pair of skeletal knights. They formed a phalanx around him and Balthier might have been greatly disturbed by all this if his consciousness wasn't almost over-whelmed with the after-shocks of Fran's distress.

They had to go faster – Fran was drowning in Mist.

There was a false wall and hidden door and then suddenly Balthier was stumbling out into a large chamber with no roof, surrounded by his honour guard of dead things.

'Fran!'

In the centre of the chamber, which he realised dimly, was the former throne room of house Nabradia, Fran was trapped in a glyph cell of darkling magick, choked in a bar-less cage filled with writhing, poisonous Mist. She was bound with chains at wrist, ankle and neck, befouled with filth, and bleeding and harassed by dancing spectres of doom summoned from the ether of cruellest death magick.

Balthier's chest screamed and he collapsed to his knees, clawing at his heart. His helpful escort of corpses tried to keep upright but they could not as Balthier fought free of them to tear open his jacket and his shirt. He looked down at the brand upon his heart and hissed in shock.

The mark of Fran's hand print over his heart was weeping blood even though his chest wound was healed closed by magicks. His skin crawled with ice and fire and pain. He dropped onto all fours on the floor and stared across the expanse of the chamber to Fran.

Snarling like a caged wild creature Fran was hyperventilating, her limbs seizing with pain, still she tried to escape her torturous prison, flinging herself again and again against the dark magick barrier of her cage. She screamed as the magick seared her flesh and jarred her bones and Balthier felt it, as if it was he who was suffocating in Mist and racked with darkest magicks.

'Fran!'

He reached out one hand, as if he could breach the distance between them with his voice and will alone. Fran's ears twitched in her feral foetal ball and she lifted her head, blood pouring from her nose and spilling down her chin and neck. Their eyes met for one painful moment, and she stretched out one twitching hand towards him before falling back in pain; shuddering and jolting like a landed fish on the filthy floor of the former throne room.

A movement upon the still extant throne of Nabradia attracted Balthier's attention. Eraldo Lumineres, wreathed in malevolent green and violet liquid flames of Mist, rose to stand and stepped down from the throne with a near ethereal grace. The cadaverous spectre of a man from Bhujerba was gone – in his place was a dark god of death morbidly resplendent in cloth of gold and heavy jewelled torque.

'Balthier,' the god of dead things intoned, 'I owe you thanks - had you not cast me from my Demesne in Dorstonis I would never have discovered the power and sustenance awaiting me in Nabudis.'

The violet eyes burned and shone through the sickly Mist haze and Balthier was repulsed to watch thin lips pull back from jagged rows of needle point teeth arrayed in a predator's smile.

'We have much to discuss you and I.' The dead man said to the recently revived man in his thrall, 'There is a reckoning to be accounted; you were destined to die, the Phoenix's victim, yet you live. This cannot be allowed to stand unchallenged.'

Eraldo brandished his dark jet and ebony bedecked scythe, 'Death shall have her dues, pirate – and I, her faithful servant, shall be the one to reap them.'

* * *

_A/N:….Hmm, bet you didn't see that plot twist coming, huh? Talk about a change of pace ;) P.S: To those who reviewed last chapter, fear not I shall be replying – but I thought I'd get this chapter out first. _


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three: 707 O.V: The Necrohol of Nabudis**

'Death shall have her dues, pirate!'

Balthier rose to his feet as the animated corpse ran at him. He had the feeling this was not going to be one of his better days.

It could be said that Balthier was not having the best of years, let alone days; in fact the last half decade had been somewhat detrimental to his well being. Dying had been merely the coup de grace in a lousy year and half of recent existence.

Therefore, it could be argued, that a re-animated corpse in a fit of pique flailing a large farming implement around while screaming incoherent dark curses hither thither, during which time, Balthier's Viera partner convulsed on the stone floor, was just another tribulation in a sea of trials for the notorious (and irritated) sky pirate.

Certainly Balthier thought so.

'Oh please,' he spat watching Eraldo charge him, 'Would you get a _life_, man?'

As his cheery band of surprisingly friendly assorted corpses drew steel to defend him Balthier extended one hand in negligent manner and kindled the magick he could taste fizzing on the end of his tongue.

(He did not spend time pondering how strange it was that his first resort should be to a mystical medium he loathed – he did not have the luxury of time to second guess himself).

Eraldo hurtled forward and Balthier saw the purplish black aftershocks of various failed attempts to kill him with Dark Magick and other arcane incantations stain the air like ink. It was an odd sensation to stand in the middle of a magickal maelstrom and not feel a thing. Scathe lashed out at him, washed over him, and dropped off him without leaving a mark; likewise Disease and Sap.

(Yes indeed, Balthier thought in a distant corner of his mind that was still dispassionately documenting events, he and Fran were going to have a long chat about just what she had done to him when she dragged him back from the brink of death. Whatever it was it wasn't bloody normal, that was for damned sure.)

'You will yield to your master!' Eraldo bellowed, somehow managing to inflate his lungs enough to do so.

It occurred to Balthier that all this really was a trifle ridiculous. A dead man in a gold loin cloth flailing an agricultural tool around in the middle of a hall of zombies – yes, ridiculous was the only word for all this.

Another blast of vicious magick, this time Doom, bounced right off him harmlessly. Balthier arched eyebrow sceptically, 'Not ruddy likely.'

Eraldo's violet eyes were narrowed furiously, 'You died pirate. I sensed your spirit depart your flesh. You are of mine own now; yield onto me.'

Balthier smirked, 'Do I look dead to you sir?' he ducked under a swipe from the scythe and skipped back a step. He felt the tingle of magick quickening through his veins, which was somewhat odd, but not unwelcome.

'Hmm, my turn,' Balthier smirked and wriggled his fingers nonchalantly and flicked the brilliant ball of Holy from the ends of his fingers so that it hurtled through the air to smash into Eraldo.

The undead braggart howled in pain and bounced backward across the broken floor of the Necrohol like a cloth gold wrapped bundle of dry sticks. Balthier had never managed a spell with that much gusto before. He was both impressed and slightly disconcerted; it was well known he was a useless caster when it came to anything but the most mundane of curatives, and in the offensive magicks he was almost completely inept. Technicks were his game, that and just shooting the buggers.

Balthier glanced at his own fingers quizzically. 'That was a trifle unexpected.' He murmured flexing his still tingling digits.

Fran would be delighted when he told her, as his ineptitude in magick had given her much frustration in the past. It occurred to Balthier, somewhat uncomfortably, that the only time he had seen magick used like this was when Fran cast.

In fact Fran knew the incantation for Holy……..hmm, there was something decidedly odd going on here, he just didn't know what. Balthier turned his attentions to Fran as Eraldo picked his cadaverous self off the ground. Interestingly Balthier's honour guard of disgusting corpses were also cowering away from him, trying to protect themselves from any more extreme demonstrations of white magick – or so he assumed.

'Have you out of there in a flash, Fran.' Balthier murmured as he dropped down onto his haunches beside her magicked cage.

Almost without thinking about it Balthier cast a quick reflect spell on himself as Eraldo hurled a vicious bolt of thundaga straight at him; he didn't know how he knew the spell was coming. It was almost as if he had suddenly become much more sensitive to the nuances of the Mist trapped in the throne room – he had almost _smelled_ the spell before it was launched. Odd, that, but he didn't have time to dwell on the strangeness.

Balthier risked a glance over his shoulder and smirked to himself as the reflected bolt came to ground in Eraldo's flaccid flesh. Fran was watching him from the ground with wild eyes when he turned back to her.

'Easy there,' he murmured as he studied the cage of wrought magick for some weakness he could exploit. He couldn't _see_ any weakness he could take advantage of, but then again, this wasn't a hume or Moogle wrought device of steel and metal, and what Balthier knew about magickal construction could be fitted into a Moogle's pocket with room to spare. This could pose a problem unless……

An idea came to him. Balthier smiled. Hmm, perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone?

Eraldo charged him again, proving that an old corpse does not learn new tricks. Balthier pivoted smoothly around to face him and rose to his feet. He extended one hand in his habitual gesture and beckoned indolently.

'Let's have you then.'

Quick as a wink he cast dispel on himself to cancel the previous reflect spell, then Haste, then protect, and then shell as he danced around the wide and sweeping arcs of the dark imbued scythe. Really, it was almost comical how poorly this corpse fought. Balthier was almost of a mind to ask the cadaver if he had thought of switching to some manner of weaponry he could actually _use_ with any level of competency, but he refrained.

'Yield,' Eraldo demanded, 'It is not natural for a spirit that has travelled to the Veil to return to his flesh alive. You are aberration; even the dead must observe the laws of Greater Magicks.'

Balthier hopped back, darted forward, ducked and dived and bobbed easily, thanks to his haste spell, around Eraldo's inept swipes. 'I am not fond of observing laws, no matter how great they may be.'

The Necrohol former throne chamber was filling with corpses, and they seemed to be brawling with one another; primarily the split seemed to be between zombie and skeleton – perhaps there was a case of flesh envy? Clearly the undead denizens of Nabudis knew no more of peace and harmony than their living forebears; either that, or Balthier's charm, grace, and scintillating wit had managed the usual trick of inciting complete and total bloody chaos.

'You and the Viera have subverted a law that must ne'er be broken; you know not what you have unleashed hume. Your lives must pay the forfeit so that balance is restored.'

Eraldo managed a lucky swipe, and a side sweep of his scythe tore open a shallow gash through Balthier's black velvet doublet, through his shirt, and the meat of his arm underneath, as well as grazing across his ribs. A ripple of dark magick danced over Balthier's various magickal shields harmlessly. He narrowed his eyes as blood began to course down his side.

'You bastard – this is a favourite jacket!' Balthier ducked under another clumsy and opportunistic lunge of the scythe.

'You bleed?' Eraldo stared at the faint gleam of crimson on the edge of his blade. Balthier curled his lip contemptuously.

'Rather well, as it happens,' Balthier purred, 'I am also an accomplished back gammon player and a rather good man for a game of billiards.'

He flung a hand out and hurled a Renew spell at the dead man walking. He smiled with contentment as Eraldo staggered back, his undead flesh burned by the curative spell.

'How?' Eraldo almost howled, 'How can it be that your heart still beats? Has the Viera truly bound you, hume? Have the Old Ways reawakened - does Lente weep anew?'

Eraldo moved far faster than Balthier had given him credit for and another rather devious shot to the ankles with the scythe almost cost Balthier his feet from the ends of his legs. He managed to jump the sweep of the blade at the last moment and darted into close quarters with the angry corpse. This close to Eraldo Balthier was safe from the scythe's over long reach. Still granted the advantage of Haste he lunged forward and curled his hands around the heavy, ostentatiously vulgar, gold torque hanging from around Eraldo's neck.

He saw the purple eyes widen in shock as Eraldo finally fathomed just how little control he had over this confrontation, 'No…..this is not possible…..you should be of the dead. You should be mine!'

Balthier cocked a fist and attempted to drive it right through the dead man's face and out the back of his skull. Simultaneously, as Eraldo's head snapped back on his weak stemmed neck with a satisfying crack, Balthier attempted to wrench the torque from around his neck.

'Leading man, sir; I'm the bloody _leading man_.'

Although he didn't quite manage to stove in the cadaver's head, Balthier did succeed in tearing the torque free of his neck. He staggered back with the force of his own momentum and lost his footing, the torque lying cold and almost slimy across his lap like a dead serpent as he sprawled on the hard floor on his backside.

'Ooof!'

'No!' Eraldo's bony hands clutched at his throat as the corpse tottered on his suddenly unsteady feet. 'This is not possible…..how can you be immune to my magicks…..immune even to death herself……has the Viera truly taken Lente's path?'

Eraldo did not get to finish his queries, as something decidedly unpleasant began to occur within the thin and flimsy architecture of his body.

Balthier, sitting on the floor, threw up an arm to shield his eyes as Eraldo's body began to go into violent seizures; shuddering horribly as cracks began to appear in the thin skein of ebony skin stretched over his prominent bones. The cracks formed like peeling varnish upon a lacquered table top, and flesh flaked away in indigo limned motes of darkling light.

Soon Eraldo was less a being of flesh and blood (albeit dead flesh and congealed blood) and became instead the glowing violet dark impression of a hume form made from the searing brilliance of pure Darkness. Balthier prudently kept his eyes squeezed closed.

'Hmmm……this could be a tad uncomfortable.'

opening his eyes cautiously Balthier scooted across the broken stone floor, his mind frantically calculating angles. He threw the torque through the air straight at Eraldo as the busily combusting animated corpse staggered right in front of Fran's cage (Balthier having carefully manoeuvred the cadaver for just such a purpose).

The torque hit its mark (Balthier never missed) and struck Eraldo's glowing chest directly. There was a hiss, like the sound of a thousand serpents, a crackle, a pop, and various other unpleasant noises. Then Eraldo exploded, sending a massive shock wave of dark imbued magick through the chamber.

Balthier rolled onto his belly on the filthy ground and covered his head with his arms. He felt the searing wave of arcane power dance over and through his bones – but it did him no harm. He tasted rot and mildew on his tongue. He squeezed his eyes closed and the aftershocks of the explosion danced over his closed lids in striating spirals of green and black and red and purple. He heard the growls and rumbles of falling masonry and fervently hoped his little stunt hadn't just brought the entire edifice of the Necrohol down on his head.

Then there was nothing but silence; Balthier wondered if he was dead once again.

The grunts and slurring growls of the walking dead invaded his consciousness and let him know that he was still extant some indeterminate time later. Cautiously he raised his head and looked about him through the hazy, masonry dust covered Mist miasma filling the chamber.

'Fran!'

He pushed to his feet and only when the twinge of pain struck through his chest did Balthier remember his injury. He brushed the pain aside and hurried to Fran. She was lying on her side, not moving, but the cage of magick was completely gone; eradicated by the wave of power released when Eraldo ceased to be in any substantive form.

'Fran, it's time to be quit of this place.'

The number of walking dead in the chamber had multiplied but none present seemed inclined to cause Balthier any inconvenience. Instead the zombies and banshee gathered at the peripheries of the room just watched him with empty eyes that nevertheless hinted at more native wit than one might expect from dead men and women. It was food for thought – but not right now.

Balthier dropped to his knees beside his partner and reached out a hand to brush her tangled hair from her face. He didn't need to be a great mage of white magick to know Fran was in a bad way.

'Come now Fran – this is hardly fair. Only one member of this partnership can be dead or transitioning between the two at any one time.' He muttered distractedly as he finished shoving her hair away.

Blood had pooled under Fran's cheek as it lay against the stone, and her eyes were closed. She did not react as he pressed two fingers to her throat and checked her breathing.

'Fran please,' he chided her sharply, sliding a hand under her head and tilting her chin up. 'This aversion to Mist is growing trite – it is high time you developed some other form of fatal weakness; your present performance might be deemed one-note.'

He pressed his hand to her chest (no movement). He checked her pulse again; weak but present. He cleared her airwaves. He tried to cast a raise spell to revive her and found that his seemingly much enhanced reservoir of magick was now all tapped out.

'Typical, bloody typical….I have all the jaded luck of a Seeq in a beauty contest.' He cradled his partner against his chest and reminded himself of the proper processes for the technick first aid. He went through the process of first aid once, twice, and thrice.

'Breathe Fran.' Balthier went through first aid again. It had limited impact. Balthier considered his other options. 'Poor show,' he muttered, 'this is very poor show.'

There was a nasty dry fire burning inside his chest; his heart laboured. He refused to acknowledge that this fire was more from panic than pain. Fran would be fine as soon as he thought of a proper remedy for her. A thought occurred to him, or perhaps less than a thought and more an instinct.

Either way Balthier tugged open his jacket without hesitation and then wrenched at the lacings fastening his shirt. He gathered up Fran's hand and he pressed it over the mark of her palm covering his chest.

If anyone had asked him what he did, Balthier would not have been able to answer. He didn't know and he could not contort the dry and finicky convolutions of logic and reason to describe the intuitive drive that led him to do as he did then. It was much like he had never been completely able to explain why it was that he had known, absolutely and completely, without the need to deviate around logic or reason, that he _needed _Fran from that very first moment he had clapped eyes on her.

He just knew. It was a bedrock logic refreshingly lacking in Balthier's usual tendency to over-complicate things. Fran was all; that was it.

Balthier took a deep breath as he held Fran's hand pressed to his chest. He concentrated on the art of breathing in and out, eyes closed, as he imagined the biological processes involved in the functions of heart and lungs and everything else that gave life to hume and Viera both.

'Pay attention, Fran.' He murmured clasping her still hand against his chest. 'This is how it works.'

He took another breath and released it slowly; he repeated the process as needed. Fran's hand jumped against his chest and she coughed. Balthier's eyes flew open at the very instant Fran opened her own eyes. She blinked at him dazedly a moment; he thought that she almost smiled. He saw it in her eyes.

'Have we not been here before, Pirate?' She croaked at him raising her free hand to cup his cheek. 'Are you to run; should I hold on?'

'Gods be damned woman.' Balthier almost whined, but managed to cling on to his dignity by the skin of his teeth, 'I don't know how much more of this daftness I can take.'

That was it: from this moment on no member of Balthier's small crew was allowed to succumb to the rigours of mortality. The captain had spoken. He would have to make sure Nono was informed forthwith, before the Moogle got any funny ideas.

Not caring right that moment about the filthy floor Balthier dropped down onto his side, beside Fran, and rolled onto his back allowing adrenaline and exhaustion free reign throughout his trembling body.

Fran tried to sit up but thought better of it. She did not pull her hand away from where Balthier kept it pinned to his chest but instead flexed her fingers over his skin.

'Eraldo?' she queried dryly.

'Went the way of Cid,' Balthier paused and winced. 'Fran, I think if one more person evaporates, or transmogrifies into pure vapour, in my presence, I shall likely go quite mad.' He paused again and grimaced darkly. 'If that is not closing the barn door after the cluckatrice has already bolted,' He added acidly.

'Eraldo was of the impression you were more dead than alive.' Fran informed him. 'He thought to possess you as his thrall. He claimed he alone had dominion of all undead.'

Balthier turned his head so he could scowl at Fran, 'Fran please, I am no one's thrall.'

Fran propped herself up on her elbow, 'You found his weakness, then?'

Balthier scoffed, 'Hardly very subtle; that filthy great medallion around his neck could not have been anything other than the source of his power.' Balthier pointed out in prickly fashion. 'I refuse to believe even a corpse would wear something so outlandishly distasteful for any other reason than sustaining his existence.'

Fran was watching the loose gathering of attendant corpses warily. 'We have an audience.' She pointed out carefully.

'I know,' he flapped a hand disinterestedly, dismissing the non-threat of the loitering dead. 'They're an alright sort when you get past the pus, gangrene, and leprous revulsion.' Balthier forced himself to sit up, 'Did you know the little buggers can talk?'

Together the partners helped each other to stand, leaning almost drunkenly arm in arm to keep from falling. Fran was still observing the walking dead. Balthier, in contrast, had spotted Eraldo's torque sitting in a smoking crater upon the floor not five feet from their location.

'They do not attack.' Fran's ears were twitching with tension as she tried to stand apart from him.

Balthier in contrast, wove his way, somewhat unsteadily, towards the torque and awkwardly fished it out of the crater. There was a chance this cursed artefact might be of use and Balthier was nothing if not keen for exploiting any potential future advantage. Interestingly Eraldo's scythe also remained untouched a further few feet away.

'Well now….hmm….'

A less than savoury idea blossomed in the slightly less than well hinged, but undoubtedly brilliant, contours of Balthier's mind. He chuckled to himself and bent down to sweep up the scythe and prop it over his shoulder.

A band of the walking dead shambled towards him, and remarkably, considering the uniform monstrousness of the undead, Balthier recognised his little band of helpmeet's from earlier. He waved good-naturedly and Fran gave him a rather sharp look.

'Yes Fran,' Balthier sighed, 'There is all manner of peculiar things going on right now. Amiable walking dead are but the tip of the proverbial ice berg.'

The band of three male zombies and two banshees staggered to a less than precise halt before Balthier. The leader, one of the banshee females, tried to formulate speech but either her vocal cords had rotted away or else her jaws had unhinged because she could do no more than moan in pitiful fashion. Something did happen however when she stopped before him.

Balthier found himself looking the banshee in the eyes (conveniently this particular ghoul happened to still be in possession of working optics). Balthier felt his own eyes widen as he saw the unmistakable glimmer of intelligence and even frustration in those dull, blood shot, yellowed orbs. Balthier sucked in a sharp breath as the female – thing – gripped his jacket sleeve in one hand that had lost three of five digits.

'Fran?'

'Yes.' Fran was right by him, in no position to fight and unarmed, but prepared to do so all the same.

'Do you have any magick in you?' Balthier demanded as he held very still as one of the zombies lurched forward and reached out a stump arm, wherein a rotted stub of wrist bone protruded from the putrefied flesh. Balthier swallowed back bile. If he was right….good gods if he was right…..

'I have some magick, yes.' Fran told him cautiously and he could not tell if she had an inkling of his thoughts or not. He nodded his head sharply trying not to jump to decidedly disturbing conclusions without conclusive proof his suspicions were right.

'Enough for a Cura?' he queried in carefully bland voice.

'Yes.' Fran had already kindled the spell; he should have known that she would intuit the line of his reasoning just as he had come to his own terrifying supposition through reviewing the evidence of his own eyes.

Fran cast the Cura spell, a curative that could touch multiple targets in range. She aimed it at the group of shambolic rotting hume-things pawing Balthier in some attempt to express themselves.

White magick hurts the undead; this is a fundamental law of magecraft that even Balthier knew and understood. He had just demonstrated the fact on Eraldo Lumineres after all. The group of five ghouls before him should have been howling in pain and staggering away from himself and Fran as soon as the spell touched them……

……_If_ they were truly undead.

The banshee with the missing fingers smiled as the spell touched her; Balthier was close enough to see the relief in those dulled eyes as for just a moment the woman-thing knew surcease from pain. The zombie with a stump for an arm shuddered and closed his one remaining eye, sallow face growing lax with a strange peace. A number of grateful sighs rose up from the other undead caught in the periphery of the curing wave.

Balthier swore explosively and even Fran whispered something that could only be a Vieran oath. He turned to stare at his partner and was almost grateful to see something like a quieter echo of his own burgeoning horror reflected in her eyes.

One of the shambolic wretches reached out to tug on Balthier's sleeve, 'Moorrrreeee…..pleeeasssssseee……..'

Balthier licked his dry lips nervously as Fran tried to kindle more curative magick. He could hear his own pulse in his ears and the thunder of his blood coursing through his pained chest. The urge to run was almost overwhelming and all other concerns were forgotten.

The undead denizens of the Nabreus Deadlands were not dead at all. The lost people of Nabudis were still alive…..and no bugger had noticed. Bloody blue blazes; how many people had passed through the deadlands in the last three years, seen a shambolic, rotting hume-form and just assumed they were some manner of banshee or zombie?

How many of these poor sods had died and become a banshee or a zombie in truth, because no one had been there to check for a bloddy pulse? Balthier himself might never have conceived of the possibility had he not had first hand experience of just how much of a difference there was between 'mostly dead' and 'completely stone cold dead'.

'They yet live,' Fran's voice held something close to awe, 'They live…..in such a state?' Her tones shaded to horror as her eyes ghosted over the living state of decay these people resided in.

Balthier's mind blazed a course of cruel cause and effect as he realised that with Dalmasca's fall almost immediately after Nabudis there would not have been any other nation in Ivalice with an interest in trying to find survivors of the Nabudis Mist explosion. Certainly the Empire had done nothing more than make off with the blasted Midnight Shard and quarantine the entire territory for most of a year.

By the time Vaan and Penelo had stumbled along the wrong path in the Salikawood when they all travelled together a year ago, (necessitating a rescue by Basch), no one would have imagined that two entire years after the fall, there would be any survivors whatsoever; especially not survivors who looked more dead than most fresh corpses.

'…….heeeelllp ussssssss…..pleeeassseee……' The 'survivors' of Nabudis continued to pluck at Balthier's clothes as he struggled to re-order his world to accommodate this monstrous new reality. Good gods almighty, just what had his father unleashed here?

Fran released another Cura which relaxed the growing number of formerly and quite mistakenly assumed to be undead denizens of Nabudis a fraction, and at least stopped them from plucking his velvet jacket bare.

'Well,' Balthier breathed out dazedly, 'This is certainly a turn up for the books.'

Still Balthier, thought musingly as he considered how he, Fran, and however many poor unfortunate living souls of Nabudis, would make it out of the Deadlands and back to civilisation without the use of an airship, this did not completely change his over-all plans.

Fran seemed to have a sense of his scheming, or perhaps was only alerted by the whimsical smile that played upon his lips, 'Balthier?' she asked him. 'You smile; why?'

'Smile?' He shifted the scythe's weight against his right shoulder meditatively. 'Hmm, I suppose I do. It is good to be alive and all that.' He waved his hand airily as he pondered numerous conflicting notions and possible plans of action both immediate and long-term.

Fran had already told him of the mess Rikken had made out of things back in Balfonheim and while Balthier was of half a mind to simply let the scheming bastard dig himself out of the hole he had made, that would not be very charitable or particularly heroic.

(He'd also never hear the end of it from the Dalmascan brats and short of shooting the pair of them, which he wasn't quite prepared to do, there was no means known to hume that could defeat the disapproving kicked dreamhare look perfected by Penelo. Balthier hated it, because it usually worked.)

'You have a plan?' Fran queried of him cautiously, and well she might be cautious. After all, Balthier's last great plan had involved stabbing himself through the heart and leaping off a purvama. To say his genius could be decidedly uneven was something of a crashing understatement.

'A plan? No.' He smirked, 'More of a……hypothetical question in need of an answer, one could say.'

'What question?' Fran did not sound all that happy with him, but then, under the circumstances, he could not entirely blame her.

Balthier smirked wryly as he observed the ever increasing masses of Nabradians, sick and shambling, that had begun to pour into the throne room.

'Oh it is a trifling thing, really,' Balthier examined the rip in his jacket sleeve mournfully, 'I was simply wonder if, should the dead rise on mass, and descend on Balfonheim, do you suppose that any _pirates_ therein might notice?'

There was a flash of something fierce in Fran's eyes for a brief moment. She cocked her head to the side, eyes sweeping over the massed ranks of the not –as-dead-as- might-be-thought-upon-first-glance Nabradians filling the chamber as if summoned by some unknown force.

'Mayhap we should go and find out?' Fran suggested mildly. She looked him up and down from his all black ensemble to his appropriated scythe and dark magick imbued golden medallion clutched in one hand.

'Balfonheim is oft said to be boisterous enough to raise the dead.' She added dryly.

'Hmm,' Balthier shifted his grip on the scythe and the shuffling masses of attentive not-dead-at-all leprous wretches gathered around him shifted back and out of the way of the blade as Balthier could not resist one of his usually flamboyant gestures and shifted the scythe from one shoulder to the other with characteristic grace.

'Right,' Balthier gathered himself and addressed the rotting masses, 'We'll make a pact, hmm?' he began thinking furiously on his feet, 'You help me and I'll ensure you receive treatment; the lot of you. If there are more of you hiding here in the Necrohol I shall send aid for them as well. In return you will help me with a slight problem I'm having in Balfonheim. How's that sound, hmm?'

'Plllleeeeassssssseeee…..'

'Annnnnyttthiiiiinhggg……jussssstttt heeeelllllppppp usssssss….'

'Heeellllppppp ussssss get out of heerrrreeeee…..'

Balthier and Fran exchanged glances; a great deal was said without the distraction of words. Fran gave one sharp nod of her head. Balthier cleared his throat and made sure his voice carried throughout the chamber.

'Right then,' he spoke loud enough that his voice echoed boldly, 'to Balfonheim!'

To Balthier's genuine surprise a ragged, groaning cheer went up from the assembled leprous, gangrenous wretches. Balthier blinked as many of the men and women staggered into a loose parody of military formation. It occurred to Balthier that many of the……_stricken_…..were probably ex-Nabradian military after all. That could be useful, especially for storming the port.

Without further ado Balthier, with Fran at his side, led the way out of the Necrohol, and the formerly dead men and women of Nabradia followed them out. Balthier's scythe bounced jauntily across his shoulder and even his chest pain was not so very great as they fell into a steady amble.

Balthier whistled as he marched; the port of Balfonheim was in for a bloody big surprise. Rikken would rue the day he ever sought to exhort aid from Balthier. However, it had to be said, Rikken and Balfonheim were not like to receive anywhere near the shock that the Empire had coming to her when Balthier marched his dead friends right on to Archades' red hewn front steps.

Yes, the Prodigal Son was going home……and the gods save Archades when he was through with her this time.

* * *

_A/N: hehehe…..couldn't resist the image of Balthier as a not altogether that grim at all reaper with his crushed black velvet and his stylish scythe over one shoulder. Still poor Larsa….not only does he have rambunctious pirates to deal with but now he has the risen dead of Nabudis as well. I can just imagine poor Basch's face! ;)_


	34. Chapter 34

_A/N: Okay….action, action, action…..this chapter is all hands on deck, multiple POV, action packed. Please buckle-up and hold on tight for the ride. ;) _

**Chapter Thirty-Four: 707 O.V: Balfonheim**

Sixteen hours into the siege and the paling around the port of Balfonheim failed. Rikken, Elza, and Raz suspected sabotage; it was to be expected in a town like theirs that someone would be in the pay of the rebel pirates.

The Valefor out to sea had not opened fire on the pirate ships out on the ocean, but the Imperial presence around the barricade kept those enemy vessels at bay for the time being. The attack on the port town therefore came from the air.

'Here they come boys!'

Elza shouted a wild grin plastered over her face as she mounted the mobile gun turret stolen years ago from an Imperial weapons silo. She opened fire on the half dozen smaller vessels that swept low on the port spilling sheets of rapid strafing fire down onto the thatched roofs of the buildings.

'Come and get it, yer bastards!'

Elza screamed spinning the hydraulically controlled gun turret around one hundred and eighty degrees so she could riddle the aft glossair engines of the trailing airship with lead. She laughed as the backend of the ship exploded and the remains of the vessel went screaming into the bay.

The port was on fire; the building housing Beruny's armaments was ablaze. She saw Rikken open the locks on the fire hose and loose torrents of water onto the building; if the munitions stored within went up the blast would likely take the entire town with it. A spark of fury ignited inside Elza – this was her ruddy home!

She opened fire again, heedless of her own exposed position as a target. The turret turned and turned as another wave of dive bombing smaller airships rained fire and destruction down on the port.

'Yer gonna pay fer that!' Elza opened the throttle wide on the gun turret. White hot lines of bullets seared upward like leaden hornets disturbed from a nest.

A cannon ball smashed into the stone of the plaza feet from her position and huge chunks of stone flew in the air like blades. Elza kept firing on the retreating ships even as she felt the rake of shrapnel tearing open deep and blazing gashes in her head, arms, and chest. Another ship went down, as Raz cranked up the anti-airship grenade launcher, positioned on the roof of the White Cap.

'Woohoo; take that yer bastards!'

Elza released an almost feral scream of triumph even as tears scored down her cheeks. This was her home – once Balfonheim was gone there was nothing left. No place in Ivalice that she could live peaceful and quiet and free. She screamed again, wordlessly, and loosed another biting stream of bullets upwards.

'Die yer bastards; die, die, die!'

Another blasted cannonade hit erupted so close to the gun turret that Elza was thrown clear out of her seat. She flew through the air several feet before coming down to land on the hard ground with a bone breaking thud. She lay there, in terrible pain, and watched as her gun turret was blown to smithereens.

From the direction of Sea Breeze Lane brigands with parachutes floated down from the sky as another wave of enemy ships swooped low, targeting Raz and his grenade launcher. She watched the Bangaa leap up on his hover board and swoop away from the White Cap roof as a curtain of cannonade fire obliterated the grenade launcher, taking most of the venerable old tavern with it. The entire plaza rumbled and shook as a dozen old stiles of moonshine went up in a malty, vinegary mass of pyrotechnics.

'Ah, bollocks…..not the sodding pub!'

Elza struggled to rise as she heard Rikken's heavy feet rushing towards her. Her burning eyes were fixed on the smoking wreckage of the tavern. If she could have stood on fury alone she would have.

'Come on, woman!' Rikken scooped Elza up into his arms. She tried to kick out of his hold but couldn't make her limbs obey.

'Leggo o' me – leggo!'

She wanted to get to another one of the hidden gun turrets, or grenade launchers. She'd crawl if she had to. She wanted to arm the under foot mines hidden along the bazaar to give the parachuting invaders a proper Balfonheim welcome. She wanted to find a god hiding place to lie in wait with her rifle for the first of the bastard rebels to set foot up the boardwalks. She wanted to do anything but lie limp in Rikken's arms as he rushed her to shelter.

They were losing their home. Piece by piece it was all being blown away.

'No use for it, petal,' Rikken grunted as he ran and took shelter in an alley between two buildings. 'If'n the bloody Imperials had done sum'it t' help us….maybe we'd have held out longer…..but damn it, love; there don't be no use dying for a town what's already a ruin.'

'No!' Elza said although she knew Rikken was right. They'd known all along they couldn't hold the town against invasion. That was why they'd hoped that smug, devious bastard Balthier would fix it for them with Larsa sodding Solidor. If Elza should die today she'd make it her business to seek out the spirit of Balthier and punch that self-serving smarmy git in his phantasmal face.

Raz buzzed over to join them hopping off his board and rolling head over heels across the floor. Flo his parrot was unimpressed by the manoeuvre.

'We t'be over run; Valefor's takin' fire out t'sea, an' Ixion's got her hands full tryin' t'stop the bastard rebels from pickin' off the civilians as they flee int' Cerobi.'

'We got no choice then,' Rikken rubbed at the thick stubble on his face. 'We got to blow the powder kegs. I'll not let those ruddy bastards take the town. It ain't right that they get their hands on what Reddas done built.'

Elza closed her eyes, feeling every broken bone and bleeding cut on her body. They had no choice but to destroy the town; destroy their home. 'This weren't s'posed t'happen.' She whispered furiously.

'No,' Rikken agreed darkly, but pragmatically, 'It weren't.'

He shook his shaggy head, 'Took a gamble we did; seemed like good odds, Balthier's come through for t'port b'for, but those are the breaks. We gambled and we lost.'

Raz jumped back onto his hover board. 'I'll go set the charges.'

It was then that a dark shadow swept over the port. The three Balfonheim natives looked up waiting for destruction to befall them. One of the enemy vessels had spotted their hiding space and readied engines to drop a payload of incendiaries down on the alley right on their heads.

'Aye,' Rikken sighed, 'That's just typ'cal.' He pulled Elza a bit more tightly into his arms and for once she did not object. Raz jumped off his hover again so he could stand with his friends, his crewmates, his fellow Balfonheimians. If they were to die they would die as they had lived –together.

'Well,' Rikken said, 'We gave it a good go; made a good showin'. I fink Reddas would be proud.' He shrugged away his life as easily as that.

Elza raised her unbroken hand and smacked him hard around the head, 'Yer a ruddy moron, you is.' She told him, not entirely without affection.

The three port natives waited in sanguine silence to die along with their happy, chaotic, freedom loving town.

Another ship screamed through the air. The three pirates looked up in shock, the sound shrill and loud enough to pierce eardrums. The new arrival flew straight towards the rebel vessel. The rebel pirate ship immediately enacted evasive action to avoid a direct collision, moving away from the alley. The three Balfonheim natives stared up at the sky in shock – their hearts tripping faster with dawning hope.

The new airship was small, old, and battered, painted in dull variant shades of red and rust. The new ship was too small, and had not the armaments to compete with the first, but what she lacked in provisions for war she made up for in the sheer lunatic bravery of her captain.

The crew of the rebel ship astonished by this mad head long aerial charge aimed straight at their vessel, tried to retreat. The smaller ship, faster than it should have been, harried the ship in the air in the manner of the small insects on the Steppes, which harass travellers in huge swarms to find a good spot to bite.

Rikken, Elza, and Raz all grinned. They recognised the new ship.

'Galbana!' Elza hissed spirits lifting. 'That's them Dalmascan's ship.'

Rikken laughed, 'Aye – nice one Vaan!'

It was then that another airship passed over the town. The Ixion, a sleek silver vessel, typical of all Imperial craft, cast a long shadow over the port as she glided above. The ship's hovering presence offered coverage for the Galbana. The presence of the Imperial ship changed everything.

Elza shook free of Rikken, who let her down reluctantly. There was a rumble of weapons fire shivering through the air from the steppe. The Empire had entered battle with the rebels and the fight was _on_.

'Well what yer waitin' for?' Elza demanded of the two men, 'the bloody dead t' rise?'

'Right then mates,' Raz growled leaping onto his hover, 'We're back in business, we is.'

* * *

**707 O.V: The Galbana**

'Do you think anyone's still alive down there?' Penelo asked as she leaned forward in her navigator's chair to look through the cockpit screens down into the smoking wreckage of the port.

'Sure.' Vaan said without any doubt shading his tone. 'You saw those two ships go down – someone in the Port had to have shot at them.'

He swooped the little craft in a smooth arc until he hovered parallel with the Ixion. The tiny Galbana was dwarfed by the almost fish-like Ixion, carefully concealed and protected within its shadow, as she was.

Through the viewing windows Vaan could see the line of rebel pirate airships massed to the west. It was like a battle with lines drawn, in the air, and Balfonheim was stuck in the middle.

'Look at them,' Penelo shook her head, tapping on the console to call up topography and radar maps. 'Just like Lemures; they're like vultures.'

'Yeah,' Vaan was grim but he was only partly thinking about Balfonheim and the battle they might have to fight right now.

He gripped the steering levers of his ship. The Galbana was flying junk: all skiff no ship, as Balthier put it. She hung together with spit and elbow grease, and as neither Vaan nor Penelo were engineers, that elbow grease had most been shed by Balthier, Fran, and Nono. It was the crew of the Strahl who kept Vaan flying and he well knew it.

It didn't sit right with Vaan to leave Fran and Balthier without help against Eraldo; it didn't feel right, even though he knew coming to Balfonheim with the Ifrit was the right thing to do.

'We're doing the right thing, you know.' Penelo was watching him and she knew exactly what he was thinking. 'Nono said Balthier was awake and better, and you know if we'd found them he'd just order us to go, away.'

She grinned at him suddenly and then deliberately paused to rearrange her lips carefully. In the next moment she had managed to put on a good imitation of an upper class Archadian accent, 'You two – stop hanging around like a lolly-gaggers getting under my feet and go make yourself useful, would you?' she even wagged her finger as Balthier sometimes did when he was annoyed.

Vaan grinned. Penelo had a way of imitating Balthier that was much better than Vaan's own impression, and it always made him feel better.

'Yeah, I know.' He admitted still watching the stalemate outside, 'It's just I'd feel better having seen the two of them. I mean Fran was pretty beat up after the fight with the Phoenix and Balthier…..'

Vaan stopped short. It didn't need saying that Balthier had been in a bad way the last time Vaan and Penelo had seen him. It brought back painful memories for Vaan; memories he usually worked hard to lay to rest. Seeing Balthier almost dead, knowing that he'd done all that damage to himself – it reminded Vaan of visiting his brother in the asylum. Staring into his brother's open but empty eyes as he slowly faded into death while still breathing, those had been the worst moments of Vaan's life. He'd watched his only family leave him; breath by breath.

Balthier wasn't anything like Reks; he wasn't a replacement for Vaan's brother and he very definitely wouldn't want to be seen as one either. He'd probably hit Vaan if he even knew that Vaan sometimes compared him with Reks. Still Balthier and Fran and even Nono had filled the void left in both Vaan and Penelo's lives; that void that called family. In a strange way, the five of them had become family, just not of blood.

'I know,' Penelo agreed quietly and Vaan thought it was more than just his words that she agreed with. Her fingers hovered expectantly over the consoles of the Galbana just like Fran had taught her, 'But Fran and Balthier would expect us to be here, to fight for Balfonheim. They trust us. They trust us to do what needs doing.'

Penelo turned to give Vaan a sly look, 'It's what leading men and their partners do, Vaan. We can't let the side down.'

Vaan turned to stare at Penelo and for a moment they just gazed into the other's eyes. Vaan swallowed, hesitated and struggled to align his feelings to words. Penelo smiled faintly and waited hopefully.

Vaan opening his mouth; he was going to tell Penelo that he loved her, that she meant the world to him; that no one understood him better than she did, but just then the radio link squawked into life making both of them jump. Vaan immediately forgot his previous line of thought – and so Penelo just had to pretend he'd actually said the words. She didn't mind; mostly it was enough to know he thought them.

'……Airship Galbana, this is Ixion. His honour Gabranth has stated that we are to offer you covering fire while you infiltrate the port. We are ready to act on your signal.'

Vaan and Penelo exchanged grins; it was still strange to them that two orphans from Low Town would ever be allowed to give orders to an Imperial ship, or that, on the word of a man pretending to be his dead brother, an Imperial airship would _allow_ two orphans from Low Town to give them orders.

'This is a long way from killing rats in Garamsythe.' Vaan murmured which made Penelo giggle.

She nodded eyes bright, 'A _really_ long way.'

This new life they led, Vaan thought, it was fun, and it was frightening, and it was exhilarating. More than that though, it was a responsibility. They had their health, their freedom, their lives to lead as they wanted to, and the price for that was to do stuff like this - to fight the good fight. He nodded to Penelo, gripping the steering levers of the Galbana

Penelo reached over and flicked open a communications channel, 'Ixion this is Galbana; thank you for your help. We're going down now.'

'Roger that Galbana; Ixion stands ready and waiting for your move.'

'You know,' Vaan said as he shoved his old rust bucket ship forward, and the Galbana lurched forward, 'I could get used to this kind of thing.'

Penelo rolled her eyes as she flicked switches to ready docking gear, 'Don't even think it. You're too short to look good in Judges armour anyway.'

* * *

**707 O.V: Aboard the Ifrit out in open waters – Naldoa**

According to legal precept Basch, under the guise of Magister Gabranth, should have formally requested that his Emperor leave the bridge and go to one of the more secure areas of the ship. He had already contacted Zargabaath, and the Alexander waited in Archades for orders to depart for Balfonheim with most of the Imperial fleet.

Basch cleared his throat, 'My lord….'

'No.' Larsa, standing upon the raised dais in the centre of the bridge, back rigidly straight, shook his head but did not turn away from the huge view screen windows and projected mist-air holograms that showed him a play by play of the battle for sea and air taking place one hundred miles away over and around the port of Balfonheim.

'I will not run and hide.' Larsa said fists clenched.

'I accept that it is too great a risk for us to approach the battle.' The boy admitted though it was clear he did not like the fact.

'If one of the rebel vessels came to suspect that the Emperor was aboard Ifrit they would try their utmost to take me hostage, or down the Ifrit to kill us all. I understand this, but I will not hide myself away from the realities of rule.'

Basch almost smiled inside his helmet. Larsa had much in common with Ashe; both noble, fierce creatures, who would take on the burdens of war and peace alone if they could only shoulder the load. He stepped up beside his young charge.

'I understand,' he said as softly as he could while wearing his brother's helm, 'I was merely going to inquire if you would like to listen to the communications relay; the signal is poor but it might give you a better idea of the battle.' Basch paused, 'I am sure the crew of the Valefor and the Ixion would appreciate knowing their Emperor is with them in spirit, if not via necessity, in flesh.'

Larsa finally turned around to face him and the boy was white as chalk. His blue eyes, enormous in his ashen face, seemed almost glassy with impending panic. Basch cursed himself a fool; it was so easy to forget that this was but a child of thirteen. It was beyond foolish of him to suggest to a child, who despite his aptitude for battle, knew nothing of war, that he might listen in to the desperate orders and pleas of a battle.

'My lord I apologise…' Basch began but Larsa shook his head and smiled. He walked over to the communication relay.

'I would like to know,' he said and then paused, 'That is to say,' he amended resolutely, 'I _should_ know. I am Emperor of Archadia now; I am commander in chief of the military. If these men are to die on my orders I should take full responsibility for it.'

Basch frowned inside his helm. He wanted badly to place a hand on the boy's narrow shoulder, just one gesture of support for a child whose burden of inherited guilt and sorrow only grew day by day. Still it would not be fitting for Magister Gabranth to do such a thing and the eyes of the crew were on them always; already, despite his best efforts, there were whispers in the capital that Magister Gabranth was not quite 'himself' and had not been since the Bahamut battle.

Unhappy with the necessity of pretence, even as he recognised it was essential, Basch flipped on the communication array and stood by his boy Emperor's side as the child sat and listened to the sounds of war.

'…..hhssssttttsss…….Ixion this is Valefor….if you can spare air cover…..hhssssttt…..we have taken several hits……blockade won't hold……..

'Sqkkkwaak……Valefor……we can spare no one….all cutters, Ramoras and pilots engaged in civilian evacuation. We are taking fire……Covering Galbana…..hhsssssttt….'

Larsa jerked his head up, face almost grey. 'Gabranth?' It was barely a whisper but that utterance contained so very much in feeling. Basch nodded and turned to one of the bridge crew.

'Dispatch all Ifrit cutter squads, sure up the sea blockade and the Valefor.' Gabranth turned and barked out another order to another soldier. 'Send word to the Alexander: tell Magister Zargabaath that we need reinforcements; Leviathan or the Shiva Mk II. It is not numbers we need by fire power.'

'As you command, your honour,' Both underlings saluted and ran to enact the commands.

The Ifrit inched forward towards the port by a few miles. If the situation grew dire Basch would order the Ifrit to engage the enemy and dispatch Larsa to safety in one of the utility vessels kept in the ship's hold. He would not see men die needlessly when he and the Ifrit could aid them.

Larsa had patched a connection through to both the Valefor and the Ixion and now spoke directly to both vessels.

'This is Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor calling the men and women of the Archadian air and navy fleet. Reinforcements are on the way. You do not fight alone. You represent the honour of the Empire and you must know that the Empire will stand by you; your Emperor stands with, and for you all.'

Larsa flicked off the communications array as bursts of static chatter shouting orders, words of praise for him, or cries for help, filled the airwaves. Larsa turned to Gabranth and his eyes were far too bleak for any boy of thirteen to possess.

'Will this never end?' He asked. 'Will I live the rest of my life at war, defending my home and the honour of my family, against crimes _I_ did not commit?'

Basch had no answer to give – or at least no answer he wanted to give – and so he broke Archadian taboo and reached out one gauntleted hand to clap the boy on the shoulder. He was not good at comfort, or expressions of sentiment, but he hoped that his presence offered the boy some solace at least.

Larsa jumped when he felt that heavy hand fall upon him. He blinked up at Basch's armoured and helmeted form in surprise. Basch was about to withdraw his hand when the young Emperor caught it and clung on for dear life.

Enough, Basch found himself addressing his thoughts beyond the confines of the Ifrit and the realms of mortal men, and outward to the listening ears of any gods that might hover close. He did not often pray, and never fore himself, but now he prayed. He prayed that these trials would be the end of it. The Empire might have debts in the legion to pay, but this boy was blameless – Basch prayed that his burden would soon be relieved. Leave this boy be to make of the Empire something good and just, Basch beseeched the fates. Let Larsa know peace.

Basch sighed deep in the steel skin of his dead brother's armour. Larsa's white gloved fingers squeezed down so hard on the fingers of Basch's hand that he could feel the grip through the thin wrapping of steel he wore. He could feel the tremble in those white gloved fingers.

Basch closed his weary eyes behind his helm. He knew that his prayers would go unanswered, just as he knew that Larsa Solidor cried the tears of a child silently, invisibly, with the dry and broken eyes of one forced to grow up far too soon.

* * *

**707 O.V: Balfonheim**

Rebel pirates were running through the winding boardwalk streets of Balfonheim hollering profanities and jeering cheers while touching lit torches to overturned vendor stalls and anything of a flammable nature they could find. They threw incendiaries into windows to set fire to peoples' homes and they raced up towards Saccio Lane to lay waste to Reddas' old manse.

Some of the brigands were blown to bits as they put a foot to hidden Sten needle and explosion traps lining the boardwalks, the plaza and Saccio Lane, while others had wits enough to enable Libra. Occasionally a straggler would be picked off by sniper fire, as they sought out natives of the port who might be hiding, but for the most part they tore through, laying waste without any impediment.

Vaan and Penelo docked their cloaked ship above the roof of the locked down aerodrome and made their way down from the roof to the chaotic streets below. A whistle and scream of munitions fire had both Dalmascan's scrambling for cover as a huge grenade was launched from within the ruins of the Whitecap to streak a white-red trail upwards into the sky and explode like a firework bloom.

A cascade of sten needles rained down from the smoke cloud of the grenade to bombard the marauding rebels with lacerating spines; men fell screaming and writhing to the ground as two snipers, from vantage points within the manse and Beruny's armaments respectively, opened fire on the wounded. Vaan and Penelo picked themselves up cautiously.

'Rikken and the others; it's got to be them.'

Vaan said grabbing Penelo's hand and starting off running towards Saccio Lane. Penelo shouted incantations for float, Libra, protect and any number of other protectives she could draw breath to utter, as they ran for the manse.

A bald headed man, who looked more red than white for all the blood covering him, lunged upward from the ground where he had been lying to seize Penelo around the waist and pull her down to the cobbles with him. A large knife flashed in the cordite and gun powder thickened air as Penelo fought to be free. Penelo screamed and raised her arms to defend herself as the knife descended.

Vaan leapt forward and locked an arm around the man's throat tearing him off Penelo. He caught the man's knife hand as he stabbed at Vaan, twisted it and drove the man's blade into his own fat belly. The bald rebel died with a look of surprise on his face. Vaan turned to Penelo as she picked herself up.

'Pen – are you alright? Did he hurt you?'

'I…' Penelo stopped spotting movement coming up the lane, 'Vaan, behind you - look out!'

A group of bangaa rushed the pair of them as a hume woman wearing a full face mask of dark cloth raised a rifle, standing perched on some packing crates, and opened fire on them.

* * *

**707 O.V: Aboard the Ifrit**

'Hhssstttssst….repeat…..repeat….this is the Ixion…..taken hit to starboard side……damage critical…….we can't take another……emergency landing…….need cover……'

'No!' Larsa leapt up from his seat and turned fierce eyes to Basch, 'Magister Gabranth – the Ifrit shall move to engage,' he drew himself up to his full (but not very great) height, 'That is a direct command, sir.'

'Aye,' Basch nodded to the helmsman who threw the Ifrit forward and full speed. They would not arrive in time to aid the Ixion, but they might manage to save some of the crewmen as they fled the wreckage across the steppes.

'Sqkkkkskkk…..this is Valefor……we hold the blockade but the barrage is endless….there must be three hundred ships…..we cannot hold for long…..permission to retreat…….we must retreat if we are to live!'

Larsa closed his eyes, fists curled around the pendant strung around his neck. He nodded his head and Basch flicked on the communication relay so he could address the Valefor.

'Valefor this is Magister Gabranth….you have permission to fall back to a safe distance. I repeat all ships under the auspicious of the Valefor must retreat and await reinforcements.'

'Your Honour,' the Helmsman called him as the Ifrit ate up the miles and raced over the ocean to reach the skirmish. 'We make our approach.'

Basch and Larsa both turned to stare at the viewing windows to catch their first glimpse of the visage of battle up close.

Thick plumes of ugly red sparked black smoke rose up from the port of Balfonheim in the middle distance, and the wreckage of numerous enemy ships dotted the ocean surf below them. The Valefor and her attending Imperial ships were already in open retreat as a wall of rebel galleons pounded the waters in their wake with cannonade fire. Other enemy ships broke through the blockade and raced forward towards the port.

'Move us forward – prepare to target the vessels breaching the quay locks; Remora squads deploy in standard formation.' Basch barked out and the bridge erupted into organised chaos and motion.

'We have a target lock on the lead galleon; cannons ready to fire.' The helmsman announced sweeping the Ifrit down in low arc over the sea battle. The parade of sea pirate ships chasing the fleeing Valefor had pulled back to harass the blockade as a unified front; as yet they had not noticed Ifrit's rapid and silent approach.

'Fire at will,' Basch gave the order and the bridge shook as the Ifrit's cannons roared into life.

Rebel sea vessels erupted in flames; pieces of debris flying fifty feet into the air and destroying neighbouring ships as pieces of smouldering timber slashed through sails and pieced hulls.

'Pull to starboard,' Basch commanded, 'Fire on the next phalanx as soon as the cannons are primed. We must ensure the port is not overrun from sea as well as air.'

'Aye your honour,' the helmsman nodded succinctly.

Larsa stepped up beside Basch. 'Reinforcements from Archades will not make it in time, is that not right, Gabranth?' He asked quietly though he knew the answer.

'I fear it is as you say,' Basch admitted. 'These rebels are well armed and provisioned. We were unprepared for this skirmish.'

'Because I have decreed that all Imperial vessels should carry only the bare minimum armaments.' Larsa said quietly. 'I have been naïve to believe that we could all have peace; the Empire's enemies truly are legion.' There was a dark note to Larsa's voice rarely heard. 'I have failed my people, and left Archadia open to attack.'

Basch winced. It was dangerous to hear Larsa speak so; it was dangerous to think this most peace loving of Solidor's might turn his back on diplomacy and take the dark path his father and brothers had once walked – all to their, and the Empire's, ultimate detriment.

'The Empire has friends also,' Basch murmured pitching his voice low. 'There are always those who will fight against the tides of peace for their own selfish ends – but do not forget all that you have wrought already to redress past wrongs, my lord. The hand of friendship will prove mightier than the sword,' Basch said wishing he had greater capacity for words, 'and the Empire will be redeemed in the eyes of Ivalice.'

Larsa looked up at him, eyes filled with pain, frustration, and hopelessness. 'You truly believe it so?'

Basch pulled off his helmet so he could truly look his young charge in the face. He did not care if Larsa saw Basch as he was, or only the shadow of his dead brother. All that mattered was that the boy saw the sincerity in his eyes and that he know that Basch spoke truth from his heart and soul.

'If I did not believe it so, I would not be here now.' Basch said simply.

For a moment it seemed almost as if the Emperor might cry, but then the boy controlled his reaction with an iron will, nodded once jerkily and released his death grip on the pendant around his neck.

'Thank you……..Basch.' Larsa said in a voice no one else could hear.

Basch Fon Ronsenberg smiled, if only for a moment, and nodded before replacing the helm of his brother upon his head.

* * *

**707 O.V: Balfonheim**

Vaan threw himself headlong at the bangaas screaming out a battle cry and drawing his Runeblade. Penelo threw a mouthful of blindness at the shooter and summoned Firaga to hand. She slammed the fireball into the belly of one of the bangaa as Vaan slashed his blade in a shining arc to open the throat of one of his compeers.

Someone grabbed Penelo around the waist, twisted her around, and threw her face first into a wall. She hit hard and slid to her knees. The last remaining bangaa managed to rake his claws across Vaan's face, aiming for his eyes and missing by the length of an eyelash. Vaan cried out, blinded by the rush of blood, and staggered back.

Penelo's aggressor caught her around the throat from behind, almost snapping her neck as he hauled her upright painfully.

'Snort,' the Seeq brute laughed, 'lookit what we caught! Balthier's little brats!'

Penelo wrenched away from the Seeq and whirled around. Silently she unleashed a blistering wave of Scathe straight at the Seeq who howled and fell backward. Vaan managed to raise his Runeblade up to protect himself as the bangaa tried to press his advantage. Penelo slammed a bolt of Thundaga straight into the bangaa's back. Vaan snatched up a rock and hurled it over arm at the woman with the gun, who had finally used some eyedrop to clear her blindness and had taken aim at Penelo's head. The pitched rock hit the woman square in the forehead and she fell backwards off the stack of crates and into the water like a stone.

Vaan leapt over the bodies of the bangaa and grabbed Penelo's hand, 'Come on,' he panted, swiping at the blood sheeting down his face with his free hand, 'We have to find Rikken and the others.'

They started running again but managed to get no further than a few feet before a tremendous explosion from the direction of Sea Breeze Lane and the mouth of the Cerobi steppes knocked them off their feet. The blast was of such magnitude that the hordes of marauding pirates stopped in their tracks to turn and stare.

* * *

**707 O.V: Aboard the Bridge of the Ixion – Cerobi Steppes**

Helmsman Harry Ebands tried not to let his hands shake on the controls as the Ixion shuddered and rattled and threatened to shake herself apart in mid-air. Quadratic equalisers had failed, paling and cloak had failed; navigational arrays had failed also. All in all, Harry thought, it did not look good. The Ixion was going down and she was going down hard.

'Do we have armaments?' Captain Allistaris demanded from the captain's dais behind Harry.

'Negative sir,' Ensign Potts jabbed fingers down on a broken, smoking console, 'that last hit really did a number on us; we nowt but sittin' ducks.'

Harry tried to pretend he couldn't hear his captain swear. He gripped the steering levers of the ship and shared a glance with his co-helmswoman Imera. Together he and Imera tried to keep the Ixion airborne. Privately Harry Ebands thought he was going to die. The thought scared him. He did not want to die.

'Here they come again!' Imera warned as another swarm of the rebel ships wheeled through the air and descended towards the Ixion like a flock of Garuda.

'Evasive manoeuvres!'

Captain Allistaris bellowed and Harry did his best to comply along with Imera, but without the equalisers the ship was as hard to move as a lump of stone. They managed to avoid the first volley of strafing fire, but through the viewing glass it was clear that one of the larger ships was readying a cannonade blast.

Harry Ebands found himself thinking about his wife Suelle, or Susie as he called her. His Susie had begged him to get out of the service. He'd argued that they'd never make ends meet to live in the capital if he quit the Imperial Elites. Susie had said she didn't care where they lived so long as they did it together in peace. Harry wished now he'd listened to his Susie.

The Ixion shuddered and groaned and Harry had to fight to keep her moving in a controlled turn. He could feel gravity clawing at the Ixion's underbelly trying to drag them down.

The enemy ship was in front of them. Harry saw her front cannon slates open ready for another cannonade bombardment.

'Hold firm now, boys and girls.' Captain Allistaris moved forward coming to stand behind Harry's chair. If this was to be their end, he'd die at the front with his troops. Harry took some comfort from knowing his Captain was with him.

'Harry,' his captain leaned down to whisper low in his ear, 'Work your magick now; we're counting on you.'

The enemy loosed her cannons on the Ixion then and Harry tried to follow his Captain's orders. He and Imera fought against the powers of gravity and the reality of almost certain death. They forced the Ixion to turn so that the worst of the bombardment pounded into the ships side and not her bridge.

Still it was all pointless; sooner or later the Ixion would be blown to smithereens.

'Captain!' Ensign Nevercote yelped, 'I'm picking up two more ships coming up fast on our port side. They're not registering as Imperial.'

Captain Allistaris bowed his head. 'That's it then.' He said softly. 'We've no escape pods – they've all been dispatched to help with the evacuation. We're finished.'

Harry Ebands held on tight to the steering levers of the Ixion and waited until he could catch a glimpse of the new ships come to kill him and all aboard the Ixion.

'Here they are.' Imera was the first to see the two new ships appear upon the distant horizon.

Harry frowned. Neither ship was very large; both looked like small commercial trading vessels or leisure craft, not warships. One was a rather gaudy red and gold colour, but the other was a pretty little S-Class sprinter decorated in blue and white swirls, picked out with gold gilt ornamentation. Harry felt like he ought to recognise this last ship.

The two craft did not slow down as they streaked forward coming up behind the enemy ship with the cannons. A split second before the red and gold ship opened fire on the enemy ship, Harry realised why the blue and white ship was so familiar to him.

'Bleeding heck……that's the ruddy _Strahl_; it's the Prodigal Bunansa's ship.' Harry hissed in astonishment as the ship in question arced upwards in a movement so graceful and so fast it defied description.

The ship, which could only be the Strahl (arguable the most recognisable and famous of any pirate ship in Ivalice) danced over the top of the rebel pirate warship, loosed her anchor right above the cockpit, and sent it crashing through the thin coating of paling treated glass fronting the bridge.

'Bloody blue blazes….' Allistaris breathed out a gust of air from deep in his lungs as the red and gold ship started blowing chunks out of the rebel war ship with its own twin mounted front cannon. The rebel pirate ship canted on its side, damaged beyond repair, and crashed down onto the undulating, rolling clefts of the Steppes in flames.

'Sir!' Ensign Nevercote was almost squeaking with anxiety, 'We're being hailed by the….' She licked her lips, '….by the _Strahl_.'

Allistaris blinked and licked his lips. 'Open a channel.' He commanded.

'…Hssst……Ixion this is the Strahl….do you know this name?' A female voice, oddly accented, floated over the crackling static.

'Yes Strahl,' Allistaris, to his credit, did not sound that over-awed to be speaking to the legendary Fran of the Strahl. Harry himself was almost too stunned by developments to breathe. The Strahl – the bleeding _Strahl_! Who in all Ivalice hadn't heard of the Strahl and her crew?

'I am Captain Allistaris of the Ixion – my crew and I thank you for your assistance.'

There was a pause over the crackling communication channel, '……You are welcome.' The female voice sounded almost surprised by the gratitude. 'The Rapture and I will clear you a path to retreat. This skirmish is not of your making, Ixion, nor should you pay the price for others folly.'

'Oh thank the gods,' Imera whispered utterly sincere beside Harry, who could only nod his head in silent agreement as he prepared to haul the ailing Ixion away from the fight.

Harry decided then that whatever happened here today, first thing tomorrow he was going to resign his commission and leave the military. Then he and Susie were going to move as far away from Archades as they possibly could.

They would live quietly and peacefully somewhere very, very far away from here.

* * *

**707 O.V: Balfonheim**

'What was that?' Vaan demanded as he and Penelo picked themselves up in the aftermath of the explosion emanating from the steppes.

'An airship?' Penelo swiped hair from her face and reached out to touch fingers of healing to Vaan's bloody cheeks. 'It sounded like a ship crashing to the ground.'

'Yeah,' Vaan waited impatiently for Penelo to finish her ministrations, 'I hope it wasn't anyone on our side.'

Penelo didn't know what she might have planned to say in response to that, as quite without warning, an enormous black shadow passed over the entire port, effectively blotting out the sunlight.

All violence and destruction halted as everyone in port, friend and foe alike, turned to look up at the sky in total bafflement.

'Whoa.'

Vaan breathed out and Penelo felt her own jaw drop. A massive airship, built to resemble a Steeling or vampire bat, seemed to descend from the clouds without warning, shrouded in crackling lightning bolts of purplish black energy, which leeched out into the ambient air turning a sunny day dark as a thunder storm.

As Vaan and Penelo watched, agog, numerous hatches opened up in the underbelly of the ominous ship and trails of ropes and rope ladders descended down towards the still extant roofs of the buildings of the port. Hume-like figures began to abseil down those ropes and scrabble down the ladders almost like spiders. It was hard to see the features of the figures clearly but something about the way they moved seemed disturbingly familiar to Penelo.

She clutched Vaan's arm tightly. 'Are those what I think they are?'

'Umm…..yeah…'

Vaan gaped as the hume figures began to clamber down from the roofs, armed with staves and swords and a variety of other weapons. There were numerous flashes of Darkga magick as the newcomers engaged the marauding rebel pirates on the streets of Balfonheim.

Vaan swallowed and tried to make his vocal cords formed words. 'Those are……zombies. There are zombies fighting pirates in the middle of the plaza.'

Penelo and Vaan stood together, unable to comprehend, as more and more undead descended from the mysterious black ship to lay siege to the rebel pirates. They could not have been more surprised if a horde of Giza rabbits armed with feather dusters had appeared from thin air to join them.

Above the two Rabanastran's heads there was another crackle and roar from the massive bat-like airship, and suddenly a very familiar voice boomed out across the sky, loud and clear as a thunder clap from heaven:

'Rebel pirates,' the voice reverberated through the air, charging the already fraught atmosphere with one man's extreme irritation. 'You have five minutes to get the bloody hell out of my sodding town, before I wipe the whole lot of you off the ruddy map.'

'_Balthier!' _Penelo and Vaan cried out together in rapturous delight. Penelo launched herself into Vaan's arms in sheer joy and relief.

Yes, Balfonheim Port might be little more than smoking rubble, yes, there might be undead zombies dropping from the rooftops hither and thither – but Vaan and Penelo were absolutely convinced that everything would be alright now.

The leading man had returned to the centre stage, and frankly that was all that truly mattered.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty-Five: 707 O.V: The Bridge of the Daikon Rider**

'Rebel pirates,' Balthier's voice reverberated through the air, charging the already fraught atmosphere with his extreme irritation. 'You have five minutes to get the bloody hell out of my sodding town, before I wipe the whole lot of you off the ruddy map.'

As soon as the message of intimidation had been sent Balthier disconnected the communication channel (or hoped he had) and slumped back in his chair in the rather dark and dour bridge of Eraldo's former ship. He rested an elbow on the arm of the almost throne-like captain's chair and scratched a hand through his hairline. He was so tired he felt physically sick. The adrenaline rush of reviving from the mostly dead, and his subsequent fight with Eraldo had long since faded; Balthier now felt like he had been cannibalised by a preying mantis and spat out the other end.

'Kupo – master Balthier – what should we do now?' one of the Moogle's, Oona, he thought her name was, asked him from her perch on one of the archaic consoles nearby.

It had been nothing less than a stroke of luck that Eraldo's medallion also controlled the interface to this ship, but unfortunately the medallion did not provide instructions in how to fly the bloody thing. Balthier prided himself on his ability to fly anything possessing wings and a glossair ring, but even he had need of the occasional hint, especially when dealing with technology formerly owned by a re-animated corpse of suspect origins.

'Do?' Balthier blinked blearily at the buff coloured Moogle. He swiped a hand over his face and sat up in the seat. His chest hurt again; a hot, corrosive, ache that went deep to the bone.

'We wait.' He sighed struggling to hold on to the conversation, 'We see if the bastards down there are going to call my bluff, and then, we try and work out how the ruddy hell we're to dock this blasted ship.'

Eraldo's airship seemed to fly quite intuitively, once he had her airborne that is. Her flight controls were hair-trigger sensitive and she roared through the skies like a fell beast of doom but other than that she was quite a pleasure to command. In fact Balthier had been surprised that such a large craft could reach the speeds this vessel managed and with such ease and dexterity in her handling. This craft, of no name known to any being left living, handled like the Strahl, which was to say she kicked and jolted and bolted through clouds like an unbroken Chocobo with a burr up her arse (not Balthier's own analogy but it was apt so he used it) and Balthier, who enjoyed a feisty flight, had rather enjoyed himself once he and Moogles had reached good altitude.

Still, like the Strahl, this dark beauty of a ship preferred to be in motion; even now hovering over the remains of the port, Balthier could almost feel in the subtle vibrations of the ship's engines through her fixtures, that this vessel would be an absolute nightmare to dock. The airship wanted to roam and prowl storm-tossed skies, not sit in a hangar gathering dust.

'Kupo-po?' Nono, designated chief bridge officer and co-commander by Balthier himself, exclaimed over a new set of buttons and controls.

Fran had been of the impression that Eraldo's ship operated as much via magick as she did mechanics and many of the buttons, dials, and levers, seemed to be festooned with sigils and incantations in an ancient language Balthier had only ever seen scrawled upon the walls of Giruvegan and other ancient relics. It was not a particularly encouraging fact, but so far no manner of Occuria wrought monster had leapt out of the wiring to slay them all, so Balthier was slightly reassured that the ship was not out to kill him. Nevertheless when Nono's furred paw moved towards one of the knobs on the newly revealed panel he reacted immediately.

'Don't touch that.'

Balthier hauled himself up from the chair, winced at the sudden driving pain in his chest, and then lurched over to Nono before the Moogle could summon some ancient, malevolent beastie from the ether via ill-advised button pressing.

'What have you found there, hmm?' He came up behind Nono's perch and looked down at the array of shiny knobs and buttons more closely.

'Teleport device, Master Balthier,' Nono told him stoutly, 'I'm sure of it. See this dial – it looks just like the ones we use for the Moogling posts.'

'Really?' Balthier was momentarily diverted. He glanced behind him to the large sigil strewn circle etch in obsidian upon the floor of the bridge. 'Do you suppose that is the transport circle, hm?'

The engineer inside Balthier, a facet of his being intrinsic to his sense of self, but a side of him that he had not had much opportunity to give rein to, perked up and was intrigued. He very much wanted to go through this entire vessel with a full tool kit, strip her down to her component parts, and see what made this ominous beauty tick. He was already imagining harvesting Eraldo's vessel for essential parts he could use to overhaul his Strahl. Or maybe he would keep this vessel in tact and start his own fleet? That was an idea with potential also.

'Maybe kupo-po; should I press the button and see, kupo?' Nono asked with no little eagerness.

Of course, Balthier reasoned dryly, he wouldn't be doing anything with Eraldo's ship until after he had brought speedy resolution to this pirate skirmish, returned the plight of Nabudis to the centre stage of Ivalice politics, had a long and frank conversation with Fran about a variety of pressing issues, and indulged in a very long and luxurious bath followed by perhaps a fortnight of uninterrupted sleep.

Balthier sighed; he needed a change of lifestyle. He was not yet twenty-four years old but he felt fifty. Gods be damned it had been less than thirty hours since he'd returned from the dead and he hadn't had a rest from one crisis to the next since his resurrection. Clearly there was something remiss here; he was fairly sure most pirates did not experience the troubles Balthier did.

'Kupo – master Balthier are you well?'

Nono was looking up at him with big black eyes. He looked worried. Balthier realised then that Nono had been speaking to him and he had not heard a word of it. He pressed the knuckles of his hand to his eyes and rubbed his hot and raw eyeballs.

'So it is a teleport device.' Balthier blinked and felt dizzy. He tried not to sway on his feet. 'Does it teleport people or objects?' He asked trying to think through his fatigue, 'Because I do not fancy being blasted into fragments and re-constituted as some manner of packing crate on the other side.'

'I don't know Kupo.' Nono conceded. 'It should do both, and if it should fail you would not be transmogrified master Balthier,' Nono told him seriously, 'You would just be turned inside out.'

Balthier decided to simply ignore everything Nono had just said. He was frankly too tired to care. He nodded numbly and stumbled back to his seat to lean over and scoop up 'his' scythe. He almost over-balanced and fell onto the floor as another wave of dizziness washed through him. Balthier straightened up slowly and leaned against the scythe. He closed his eyes; he felt hot, sick, and his senses were dulled and throbbing with exhaustion.

'Right,' Balthier sucked in a breath, 'bollocks to it. I'm going down to the port. Nono, press the button and let's see what happens.' He already felt discombobulated to the highest degree of magnitude; how much worse could it be to wind up inside out?

'Kupo! Yes master Balthier!'

Nono was pleased with this swing towards reckless abandon. The Moogle had the same unhealthy infatuation with risk that Fran was forever chiding Balthier about. The desire to press a strange button just to see what it did was a temptation too great for either Moogle or master to resist.

Balthier staggered almost drunkenly over to the dark glowing disk, rimmed in sigils that had the appearance of a transportation circle. Nono twisted knobs and depressed buttons on the console and then flew swiftly over to the glowing circle etched into the floor and perched on the curved top of Balthier's scythe.

'Here we go kupo!' The Moogle cheered excitedly. Balthier just wanted to go to bed and sleep for a life time. He was sick to the back teeth of all things pirate.

The teleportation circle activated with a sigh of violet-dark magick. Balthier felt the familiar tingling lurch of teleportation magicks yank at his internal organs and then, before he could decide whether a suitable response was either to groan, or vomit, his being and Nono's underwent the disincorporation of transportation.

Balthier could only hope that he and Nono re-materialised somewhere friendly and in right physical order. Fran would be unimpressed if he ended up inside out and all turned around, after all.

* * *

**707 O.V: Balfonheim**

Amid the assortment of diverse personages in the port of Balfonheim, friend and foe alike, there was a long and breathless moment of waiting immediately after the echoes of Balthier's voice died on the wind. No one knew quite what would happen next; everything had changed so rapidly already.

From rooftops and rubble piles the miraculous appeared undead soldiers pulled great bows taut, arrows notched and ready, while others brandished fistfuls of darkra magick and vicious looking blades of rusted steel. They advanced on the rebels with merciless eyes (those that had them).

The rebel pirates, who had come to sack a nearly defenceless town, not fight hordes of zombies, were completely unprepared for this turn of events. Some immediately made to escape and others threw down their weapons in instant surrender. Those that fought did not do so for very long.

From the direction of Cerobi the Strahl and the Rapture swopped down to hover alongside the huge dark ship, and from the open waters of Naldoa the Ifrit approached, leaving the ocean surf littered with burning debris in her wake – all that remained of the rebel pirates once great armada.

From the very jaws of victory the rebels had somehow managed to snatch defeat as their prize. They had lost the port they sought to overrun, and now stood to lose much more.

Leaving their individual hiding places the defenders of the port: Rikken, Elza, and Raz, emerged, came together, and moved forward as one to meet with Vaan and Penelo. It seemed like the battle had come out in their favour though they'd be buggered if they could work out quite how.

The three Balfonheim natives joined everyone else staring up at the great black ship floating like a bad dream above their heads. Rikken rubbed at his stubble coated jaw in deep thought. He squinted his one remaining eye and decided that this was all a bit too bleeding strange for him and so he turned to Vaan. The apprentice would know what the blooming heck was going on - or at least, he'd better.

'I thought Balthier was s'posed t'be dead?' he said finally.

'Umm,' Vaan thought about this, 'He was, sort of, but he's better now.'

Rikken considered this answer in turn. He shared a glance with Elza who leaned heavily against his shoulder. She snorted derisively and tossed her mane of luxuriant hair.

'Why not?' She asked offhandedly. 'He's the bleedin' leading man, ain't he?' To say she was openly contemptuous was something of an understatement. 'Smug get's always got to have his drama.'

As if this was some sort of cue there was then an abrupt crackle and popping noise in the air. Seconds later a patch of thin air five feet directly in front of the five pirates grew suddenly and inexplicable hot. There was a darkling flash of violet black energy and a very familiar, hume male form materialised from nothing directly in front of them.

'Whoa.' Vaan breathed.

Everyone in the plaza stared, in awe, at the debonair young man in his crushed black velvet finery, his tight trousers, and high buckled boots, his gleaming jewellery, and the large, shimmering dark scythe held nonchalantly in one hand. Although he was actually unaware of it in this instance, Balthier had just managed one of his more impressively dramatic entrances, adding a few more paragraphs to the as yet unwritten lurid tale of his many exploits.

Elza scoffed a dark laugh, breaking the spell, and tossed her head once more irritably, 'Told yer,' she sneered. '_Drama;_ always with the drama.'

'Ghh – bloody hell,' The pirate Balthier, thankfully not hearing Elza's disdain, groaned and blinked once, twice, and then thrice. He staggered in the aftermath of his teleport, righted his balance, and grimaced at the unpleasant sensation dark magick transportation had on one's innards. He used the staff of his scythe to lean on as the Moogle seated on the curve of the blade wobbled, fluttered his wings, and righted his own balance.

'Kupo-po – I did not like _that_, kupo.' Nono said looking somewhat wilted. Balthier nodded.

'Yes – I won't be doing that again in a hurry.' He said with feeling and Nono slipped from the back of the scythe to settle in his more comfortable position straddling Balthier's shoulder. 'At least we appear to be in the right physiognomic order.' He conceded.

'Risky,' Nono shook his head, 'Mistress Fran will be displeased with us.'

The Moogle wilted somewhat further. Nono had a delayed and curious guilt complex, wherein he tended to only realise the inherent danger in an action after said foolhardy action had already been taken. Still, this was a step up from Balthier, who made it a principle not to worry about consequence at all unless forced to. This in itself probably explained why it was Balthier who had collapsed under the weight of his own guilt and self-loathing and thusly thrown himself off a purvama, and not Nono.

Of course, Nono had his own stumpy little wings, and would probably have merely floated gentle as a leaf down from the purvama, had he decided to jump, whereas Balthier had plummeted like a stone……..and why the bloody blue blazes was he thinking about nonsense like this in the first place? Balthier cursed his wandering mind silently and tried to re-acclimatise himself to the centre stage once more.

He had far too much to do to go funny in the head right now.

Finally, now once Balthier was sufficiently sure he hadn't left a kidney or a finger or some such bodily part aboard Eraldo's ship in the process of transportation, Balthier turned to address the gathered friends and foes staring at him like a bunch of slack jawed provincials. He fixed his gaze on Vaan and Penelo first (who at least had an excuse for looking like slack jawed provincials – because _they were_ provincials).

He nodded nonchalantly but allowed some of his surprising pleasure to see them to come through in his address. 'Vaan, Penelo; all well with you?'

As greetings went it lacked emotion gravitas, especially under the circumstances, but the children would just have to make do. For a long moment Balthier, Vaan, and Penelo just stared at each other; caught in a moment of acute mutual awkwardness.

Penelo broke the stalemate first. She moved up to Balthier swiftly, unperturbed by the scythe still spitting a corona of black magick dangling from his hand. She grinned and then, even though it was clear from her movements that she fully expected to be pushed away, she hugged Balthier tightly.

'I'm so glad to see you.' She told him, voice muffled by his velvet jacket. 'I'm so glad you're not dead.'

Balthier looked down at the girl a little bemused by this emphatic show of public affection. He should be flattered, and he was, in a distant sort of way, but the truth was he just wasn't good at this sort of thing.

'You are?' A bit awkwardly, but politely, Balthier detached himself from the girl's grip and found himself face to face with Vaan's enormous grin. It was all a bit disconcerting.

Balthier frowned at Vaan. 'What are _you_ grinning at?'

Logically Balthier knew that Penelo and Vaan would be glad that word of his death had been somewhat exaggerated – but there was still that odd sense of detachment, of _bemusement_ to see the genuine relief in their eyes. Or maybe it was guilt that assailed him? There was a little voice inside Balthier that whispered to him still that he did not deserve the devotion the Rabanastran duo afforded him. Most of the time he was an absolute bastard to the pair of them, and he knew it, even if they chose to forgive the fact.

'I knew you wouldn't die.' Vaan told him confidently. The boy tilted his chin up, for he was not tall and could only meet Balthier's eyes by looking up. 'I knew you'd make it here sooner or later.'

'You did?' Balthier realised that he was sounding as surprised as he was, but frankly this faith in him seemed ludicrous. No sensible person, in Balthier's informed opinion, would put their faith in him.

_Ffamran the failure, _he heard a crowing echo in his mind,_ Balthier the coward. _

'Sure,' Vaan replied oblivious to the thoughts sifting through Balthier's mind. The boy turned his attention then to look up at the scythe. 'Where'd you get that?'

'Eraldo,' Balthier said absently shaking his head and trying to focus on what was immediately important. 'Here,' he held out the scythe to Vaan, 'hold it for me a moment, would you?'

Handing the weapon off to Vaan, Balthier chose not notice when the youth yelped as his hands touched the icy cold and magick maligned shaft. He turned to face the Balfonheim trio and his mood darkened obviously.

He scowled. 'And as for you lot,' Balthier's brows drew low and his mouth pursed into a thin line, 'If I had the energy I'd see you all dead.' He told them with nothing less than the utmost sincerity. He didn't enjoy being made into another man's stalking horse (even if he had to admit the idea had some merit – at least from Rikken's viewpoint).

The Balfonheim trio tensed visibly. 'It'd be a fair fight.' Raz told him from the region of his calf. The diminutive Bangaa showed a lot of teeth as he smiled and his parrot squawked from the top of his hat. Balthier felt his lips re-arrange in a sneer. He didn't know which one he disliked most, the bangaa or his sodding parrot.

Fran stepped into the plaza then with Aeneas at her heels; Balthier sensed her approach without needing to turn to face her. It felt like the hair on the nape of his neck rose up on end and a shiver ran down his spine. The sensation was decidedly odd; his pulse sped up.

'There has been enough killing.' Fran stated simply as she came abreast with him. 'It ends now.'

'What about the rebels?' Aeneas asked mildly, surveying the plaza with a keen eye. Balthier did not quite know what to make of Aeneas. He couldn't decide what his former cohort was after.

The fact that Aeneas had come in search of he and Fran in the first place, could be dismissed as simply trying to find a weapon against the rebels, so too could Aeneas' willingness to follow the plan Balthier had devised – yet – maybe there was something more to it than that? Perhaps Aeneas wasn't as likely to stick the knife into Balthier's back now as he had been before? Or perhaps Aeneas was simply waiting for a more convenient time to exact his revenge?

Balthier shook his introspection off, suddenly impatient with himself; now was not the time.

Glancing about him to those rebel foes who had not managed to scarper the moment the tide of the skirmish turned against them he made his own survey of the situation. This was all such a bloody mess – and why was it that everyone expected him to deal with it? He was a sky pirate not a politician. It wasn't as though he _enjoyed_ sticking his neck out in the name of Ivalice wide peace. It was entirely accidental that he kept inadvertently aiding and abetting the smooth running of Ivalice. Balthier looked out over the 'battleground' the plaza had become scowl in place.

Those unfortunate rebel pirates remaining seemed frozen in shock and confusion, and presumably had been so all this time. They knew they were defeated. The Nabradians had done a marvellous job of corralling the rebels into small clusters and forced those groupings to throw down their arms. Many of the rebels had already raised their hands in surrender; one or two were waving scraps of white cloth simply to confirm the fact that they knew they had been completely out-classed.

Balthier glanced back at Rikken, Elza, and Raz as the Ifrit swooped into the quay and began to dock.

'Well?' he demanded belligerently of the trio. 'This is your bloody port and your rebels; what do you want to do with them?'

Rikken shrugged watching the Ifrit come to dock as well. 'Let the Empire have 'em,' he spat. 'Don't care me, one way or t'other, so long as they're out o' me sight by sundown.'

Rikken then turned his gaze outward and stared mournfully at the wreckage of the Whitecap. For the first time Balthier realised that the Whitecap had been almost completely levelled to the ground. Balthier couldn't give two figs for most of the port but the loss of a bloody good pub hurt; especially right now when he badly wanted a drink.

'Town's ruined; it don't matter now.' Elza said her gaze also fixed on the ruin of the Whitecap, and it was quite clear to see that she too had similar priorities to Balthier in this regard.

'You can rebuild,' Penelo insisted full of hope and indomitable cheer, which just served to remind Balthier how very tired he was. 'It doesn't have to be over.'

'It must be rebuilt,' Fran interjected keenly before exchanging a complicit look with Balthier. 'Balfonheim is neutral ground.' She said mostly to him as her gaze did not leave his. 'Within Empire but not of Empire; the port is best placed to serve as healing ground for the Nabradians.'

'Yes,' Balthier murmured without a trace of a smile as he turned his own abstracted gaze across the smoking remnants of the port once more.

'Archadia's guilt should pay dividends.' He murmured dully forcing a casual shrug that just hurt his chest. 'Have the town back to scratch in no time whatsoever.' Still he did not smile. He couldn't muster the energy. The bright and maniacal cheer he had felt while battling Eraldo was a distant memory now. Balthier was just tired.

He knew what had to be done; he'd plotted it all out as he flew hell for leather across half of Ivalice in a stolen airship to reach the port. Still the thrill of high-stakes gambles for long odds and high risk, was absent from his machinations this time. It just seemed so tiresome all of a sudden. He had lost any love for this game when he threw himself head first off a purvama.

'What?' Vaan frowned confused, his voice dragging Balthier back to the present. 'What do you mean?'

'What do you mean by Nabradians?' Penelo asked at the same time, before flinching back a step as one of the zombies shambled towards Balthier.

Balthier recognised one of the Nabradians who had helped him back in the Necrohol. Balthier had mentally tagged him 'stumpy' in honour of his missing hand and protruding nub of wrist bone, but as it might be considered rude to refer to the man as such he dredged his tired mind for the man's true name as he turned to greet him.

'Ah, master Rogan,' Balthier knew his tone came across as artificially cheerful but the last thing he wanted was for Vaan or Rikken to attack the poor sod as he lumbered over. 'I thank you and your people for your assistance.'

He gestured outward to encapsulate what that assistance entailed. The rest of the Nabradians fit for combat still held the rebels at bay and under control proving that once upon a time Nabradia had fielded an army with discipline to rival the Empire. Sadly Nabradia had lacked a mad genius scientist with a penchant for genocide to compliment that fine army, such as the Empire had possessed in Doctor Cid.

To the visible (and in Penelo's case audible) astonishment of the gathered pirates Rogan nodded with ponderous care and struggled to form gargling words. 'Bargain? We help you…..'

'And I help you in turn,' Balthier finished off for him, reaching out a hand to steady the man on his feet. 'I am a man of my word, sir.' Balthier nodded to the great hulk of the docking Ifrit and the cloaked figure emerging from within. 'In but a moment I hope to secure you and your countrymen safety, security, and treatment.'

'But….what…?' Vaan and Penelo were agog once more; Balthier wondered if they had especially developed unhinging jaws to accommodate the amount of time they spent with their mouths hanging open stupidly.

'What's going on?' Vaan demanded sounding if anything obscurely hurt that he wasn't already in the know.

Fran stepped up to the two Rabanastrans' side. Balthier was relieved that he wasn't going to be called to explain. All he wanted to do was sleep for a very, very long time. Perhaps he would contrive to put himself in another near death coma – solely to escape from all this nonsense for a time.

'Cast Libra and then cast Cura upon them,' Fran told the children, 'you will then see what we have learned.'

She nodded to a group of Nabradian women who looked like banshee; there was one in that number who was no more than four foot tall and while Balthier would have liked to pretend she was just a very short adult he knew that he was looking at a child, withered, blistered, and scarred like all the others.

Penelo and Vaan stepped forward and did as Fran had bid them do; Balthier almost didn't want to watch. Their shock was immediate and intense. Penelo clapped a hand to her mouth to stop from crying out in horror and Vaan turned pale as chalk. The little child in the group began to cry as the healing magick brought a surcease from the pain that had become the very fabric of her existence these last three years. Rogan shambled over to the group; the man picked up the child in an attempt to soothe her.

'What are they?' Rikken asked keenly, sidling up alongside Balthier and watching as Balthier himself watched Vaan and Penelo move through the throngs of undead casting curative magicks in sudden fervour. Penelo was sobbing as she cast. Perhaps it might have been better if Balthier himself had explained after all? Fran had not exactly softened the blow of discovery for the children so much as set them up for a short, sharp shock.

'Nabradians,' Balthier sighed, answering Rikken's question, 'Turns out the people of Nabudis are not all as dead as was once commonly assumed.'

Elza blinked and stared as she hobbled over, 'Yer sayin' that them rottin' fings are still people?'

'Yes.' Balthier said succinctly. 'Those rotten things are people.'

'Bugger me,' Raz rumbled from his vantage point staring at a lot of rotting knees, 'Well blow me down; guess I'll go see if'n we got any more potions an' what-not.' He waddled off without further comment. Balthier frowned after him in surprise.

Rikken continued to watch Balthier, 'Yer got a plan?'

Balthier nodded distractedly as he spied the belated approach of Magister Gabranth across the broken stone of the plaza. 'Yes.' He said. 'I have a plan.'

He turned to Rikken and Elza struggling to gather his thoughts. Sleep. He needed sleep – and gods what he wouldn't do for a hot bath right now.

'You wanted me to treat for terms with Larsa,' he told the Balfonheim natives and almost winced at the cold snap of displeasure in his tone, 'well I have found you your leverage.' He gestured indifferently to the Nabradians.

Rikken widened his one good eye, 'Blimey,' he glanced back at the figure all in dark armour approaching them from the direction of the Ifrit's quayside dock. He snorted with dark humour as he caught on to the 'plan'.

'Ain't no one can say yer don't have bollocks o' steel, Balthier.' Rikken grinned, 'Balckmailin' th' Empire with 'er dirty secrets; yer askin' fer a hangin'.'

Balthier arched a brow, 'If I'm to go to the gallows, be assured I'll take you with me.'

Rikken just laughed. At the very least the man was straight forward in his associations, Balthier thought wryly. Rikken didn't care if Balthier wanted him dead for his manipulation so long as he achieved his aims. In this respect, at least, Balthier could respect him. Elza, in contrast, was another matter. She was not amused or impressed by the solution Balthier had come up with for Balfonheim's troubles.

'Yer gonna turn our town int' a ruddy leper colony.' She sneered having picked up the gist of his plan while completely missing the _point_.

Balthier wheeled on her then genuine anger thinning the features of his face. 'I am about to fix your bloody mess for you, _madam_.' He snapped. He didn't know what bothered him more; the ingratitude or Elza's impugning of the Nabradians. 'Keep your spiteful tongue to yourself or make your own damned peace with the Empire.' He snarled at her.

Elza might have said something in retort then and the two of them might have entered into one of their vitriolic disagreements (Balthier made no qualms about his dislike of the woman and she was vocal in her own disparagement of his character in turn) but Rikken pinched her side and gave her a quelling look.

'Yer know he's right.' He warned her. 'We need him to fix fings, an' it ain't like Balfonheim turns folk away jus' cuz they're ugly lookin' an' maybe missing some limbs.' Rikken pointed out with odd dignity. Once Elza had subsided irritably, Rikken addressed Balthier again.

'A'ight,' he said briskly. 'Ain't got a problem lettin' yer hoodwink the brat-emperor,' He shrugged, 'But mind, we ain't gonna pay the Emperor's bloody taxes or follow 'is laws. Sooner pack up an' leave t'port t' rot then swallow Archadian tripe like mongrels, we would.'

'No taxes, no Judges; got it.'

Balthier flapped an irritable hand in acknowledgement but had no opportunity to say anything more as Judge Magister Gabranth had finally reached them by this time. It occurred to Balthier that the man must not relish the thought of a reunion anymore than Balthier did, because Balthier _knew_ Basch could walk faster than this in armour.

The Judge came forward, stopped, saluted stiffly, and pulled off his helm to address the assemblage, but his eyes were on Balthier alone.

'I am Judge Magister Gabranth; emissary to Lord Larsa Solidor,' the living man pretending to be his dead brother nodded curtly to Balthier before beginning a recitation. 'His exalted honour the Emperor Lord Larsa Ferrinas Solidor of Archadia would like to send his glad tidings to the pirate Balthier. The Emperor is pleased to find you are alive and well.'

The Judge Imposter paused in his memorised speech to give Balthier a rather pointed look, 'The Lord Larsa, Emperor of Archadia, sends this sentiment as one who fought beside you once in defence of Ivalice peace; he hopes that that past spirit of comradeship will continue and flourish with these negotiations.'

Balthier arched a brow at the very decorously worded warning and veiled message hidden within the courtly and needlessly verbose greeting. Oh how Basch must have hated giving that little speech. It quite lifted Balthier's spirits to think on it. He swallowed a smirk and truly tried to control his tongue.

'How kind,' He demurred blandly – and he honestly wanted to leave it there. He could feel Fran's eyes on him in abject warning. Still there was no hope for it. For Balthier could feel the smirk break free across his face, and his mouth began forming more words. He just couldn't seem to help it. Irreverence was too much his creed to attempt abstinence.

'Please convey to his exaltedness your Emperor that the pirate Balthier, of no acknowledged last name and _negotiable_ honour, sends his gratitude. He doesn't remember much of peace during his jaunt with the Emperor; anything but as it happens, but that's by the by.' Balthier grinned, 'And I always give as good as I get in any….._negotiations_…as his Exalted Wonderfulness should remember from our brief sojourn together.'

Basch gave him a very level stare. 'You just couldn't stop yourself could you?' He asked in tired tones, yet there was just a hint of something a touch friendlier in the man's pale eyes; something that suggested that in a most abstract way Basch too was pleased to find that Balthier's little respite to death and beyond had not affected him in any noticeable way.

'I told his lordship you'd make mock.' The older man sighed with a shake of his head.

Balthier's smile grew broader. 'I could not resist; you left too easy a target.' He admitted with a smirk. He wasn't about to start apologising for his disrespect – he might as well apologise for continuing to draw breath if that was the expectation of him.

Fran, who had remained quiet until now, gave him a rather droll look and then turned to the Magister imposter.

'The port burns; we have time enough for talk later.'

Balthier was surprised and also a smidgen pleased by Fran's interruption. Fran had just offered up a small window of respite before the unpleasant business of shattering a boy emperor's illusions and plunging an Empire into disarray must begin. Oddly enough, considering Balthier's feelings towards the Empire, he no longer wanted to see the look on Larsa's face when he discovered the truth of the Nabradians.

'True Fran; let's save the hard work for later.' Balthier replied blandly as a dark little tickle of thought twitched against his mind. It was something of shock to discover that he did not want to watch the Emperor squirm in the face of the truth about Nabudis.

_Fancy that, _a snide inner voice hissed in his mind, _Perhaps you've actually grown out of your immature spite, hmm? You know that Larsa is as close to blameless regards Nabudis as it is possible for a Solidor to be. So whom do you really want to punish, hmm? _

Balthier forcibly ignored his inner voice. He would deal with his inner critic's questions about his own motives after he had managed all the other crises he had to deal with….and after he had attained the long, hot bath he longed for.

'Aye,' Basch responded to Fran's not-exactly-a-suggestion and Balthier realised he had lost track of what was happenig around him once more. He so badly needed a few hours rest; he could feel his brain falling asleep as he stood here.

'The Ifrit offers her services to the port of Balfonheim.' Basch said formerly. 'We will aid you in the……clean up.'

'Oh jolly good,' Balthier said before he could stop himself, but he did refrain from adding the caveat: _because I have an entirely new mess ready to dump in your lap, your honour. _

The thought actually made him feel slightly guilty. He and Basch had always shared an uneasy camaraderie; Balthier found Basch's devotion to duty incomprehensible and probably symptomatic of some peculiar pathology and Basch seemed to view Balthier with a irritating mixture of mistrust and disapproval, which only served to spur Balthier on to further antagonise the man. Nevertheless Balthier did not want to make the man's life difficult; any more than he wanted to make Larsa's difficult, he realised with surprise.

To his shock Balthier realised that he actually _respected _the pubescent Emperor and his devotion bound lap dog more than he had ever realised. Then again, Larsa and Basch had never run away from their troubles, but instead stayed to try and put things right; perhaps that was the reason for it?

It was food for thought and Balthier would think over all these revelations at length as soon as he found a nice, deep bath to wallow in.

* * *

**Balfonheim - later**

As Balthier and the others began the work of trying to decide if it was worth putting out the fires or simply letting the port burn and then sifting the rubble for anything useful, Balthier caught a glimpse of his own face in a pane of broken window glass.

He met his own reflection and was still staring into his own dazed eyes when Fran came up beside him in the mirror. He focused on her reflection inside of his own.

'A change is coming,' Fran murmured quietly watching his reflection as keenly as he watched her, 'What was ends, what is to be….' she paused, '…..I see a strange new horizon within your eyes.' She told him. 'Think I do, that we are to migrate to a new stage.'

'Hmm,' Balthier murmured vaguely, 'everything has changed.'

Everything and nothing at all, in fact; everything and nothing had changed. Or perhaps it was only Balthier who had changed? Either way, it mattered not. All that mattered was that nothing was ever going to be as it had been – because Balthier no longer wanted it to be such.

'I have never feared change,' Balthier said. 'I welcome it.'

'This I know,' Fran agreed mildly. 'I wonder only, what will this change bring? What are you to become?'

Balthier tore his gaze from the broken window and looked up beyond the smoke clouds of the town and up to the sky beyond; the sky that had always been his refuge; the sky that had not stopped him from falling. The sky that was not quite enough to give him buoyancy anymore. He watched the approach of the magnificent Alexander cresting the horizon en-route to pick up the prisoners and take them to lock up in the capital.

'Me?' Balthier asked distractedly.

Once upon a time Balthier – or Ffamran rather – had wanted to spend his life building airships, he remembered suddenly. He would have been _happy _to spend a lifetime doing that, he realised now.

'You,' Fran confirmed, 'And I, also. This change I sense is from within, not without. We are players, we two,' Fran almost smiled, 'But I sense that we have outgrown the old performance.'

Balthier frowns. He is listening to Fran, of course, but he is also thinking other thoughts; he is thinking about the Alexander. The Archadian flagship Alexander is beautiful, imposing, immense, and impressive – but is she practical – is she efficient? How does she fly; fine or poor? He wondered in sudden abstraction.

Balthier knew that his father might have been a maniacal, demented genius capable of creating marvels both benign and monstrous, but he had also always been a lousy engineer with little concept of the practicalities of design. Cid had always been more interested in theory than practice and his work reflected that lack of attention to detail. The Entire Imperial air fleet was probably riddled with his father's lazy inefficiencies, Balthier thought. Bahamut's wiring alone had been atrocious he recalled.

_I could make a better ship than the Alexander – bugger it, I could _make_ the _Alexander_ a better ship. _

'I think Fran,' Balthier said softly still watching the Alexander cast her long shadow over the ruined port, 'I think that I am a player tired of all performance.'

'Indeed?' Fran asked him curiously, but her eyes too watched the Alexander knowingly.

'Then what for us? Wherefore do we go now? Should the leading man tire of his stage what then does he long for?' She asked, but the amusement in her tone suggested that she already knew on what horizon Balthier's wandering eye had fixed upon.

The Alexander hovered above them, massive and beautiful and also loathsome to Balthier's eyes. She was a symbol; a symbol of all that had been lost, cast aside, mourned, and simultaneously reviled. Past versus present versus the promise of an unwritten tomorrow; a man might seek to cut all his ties, but then he must risk losing everything he is and hopes to be. He must risk spinning in the void forever more.

Sometimes to go forward a man must first go back. He was tired of running in circles. Balthier took a deep breath.

'I think that I want to go home.' He said. Fran said nothing, but merely waited; her eyes upon him urging him silently to speak on.

Balthier closed his eyes and let out another tightly held breath. He felt something hidden and deep rooted come free and blossom in his mind as he finally forced himself to speak the words.

'I want to go home to Archades,' he said again with more certainty. 'I want to walk on the ground like a man for once.'

* * *

_A/N: hello everyone. Firstly, as always, big thanks to everyone reading and/or reviewing. Your support is wonderful and much appreciated. Secondly this chapter is a bit 'filler-ish' after the last one; I apologise for that. This story is slowly drawing to its close, but there are still some stings in the tale – one of which is revealed next chapter – everything is changing and Balthier and Fran are not going to end this story in the same place they began it – or playing the same roles! _


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty-Six: 707 O.V: Balfonheim**

It was dusk of the next day by the time the last of the smouldering fires of Balfonheim had been completely doused. The Imperial Alexander had arrived and departed along with the Shiva Mk II some hours' prior transporting rebels to waiting incarceration. The rebels seemed to be relieved as they were carted off into Archadian custody for at least Imperial prisons were not known to be filled with ambulatory corpses handy with a sword.

The long hours since the Alexander's arrival had been taken up treating the injured and de-activating the fiendish array of booby-traps Rikken, Elza, and Raz had set up in the town. Slowly, as the hours crawled by, the Balfonheim civilians had started to return, aided and escorted by the Imperial Remora and cutter squads. The civilians stood in clumps in the dusk shadows, huddled in blankets, as they assessed the damage done to their homes.

Sometime in between fighting fires and poking through wreckage Balthier had suggested that the Nabradians retreat to rest aboard Eraldo's ship (Fran claimed the vessel was called the Daikon Rider – Balthier thought she had just made the name up, but didn't object all the same).

Once his merry band of returned from the dead Nabradians were comfortably in the Moogles care Balthier had managed to attain his longed for bath using the intact facilities of the old manse on Saccio Lane, and Fran had taken the opportunity for a brief nap. Then the sky partners switched over and Balthier passed out across the bed while Fran drew herself a bath. (Balthier had chivalrously offered Fran use of the bath first, but she had declined. He didn't waste time offering twice).

Thus it was that as darkness drew in across the port like a silken shroud of lilac shadow the pirate Balthier, born Ffamran Mid Bunansa of Archades, boarded the Ifrit alongside Fran, Vaan, Penelo, and the Nabradian Rogan, to parlay with the head of the Archadian state.

To say that the Imperial soldiers aboard the Ifrit were a little disconcerted to see that the pirate Balthier's party included a rotting fiend was an understatement, but they were well trained and said not a word as the odd party was shown to the main meeting room aboard the ship where Larsa Solidor waited to negotiate terms alongside Magisters Gabranth and Zargabaath.

'Good gods, man.' He who was pretending to be Gabranth exclaimed when he laid eyes on the zombie.

'What do you think you are doing?' the Judge Imposter demanded of Balthier, none too politely, as the pirate moved forward without observing any form of protocol or politeness and slumped into one of the waiting chairs. His nap had not so much refreshed him as left him more aware of just how sleep derived he was.

The alleged zombie Rogan staggered toward the table and looked across its glossy length to the Archadian Emperor. Larsa grew a touch pale but remained calmly seated in his chair, hands loosely clasped. Zargabaath reached for his blade but hesitated to draw steel. Everyone waited somehow sensing that the next few moments would change everything.

The suspected zombie spoke, '……I am Rogan Nare of the….' The creature struggled to enunciate…….'of the Nabradian Royal Guard…..' the mis-proclaimed zombie raised his saggy, leprously pale face to regard the boy Emperor and the two judges. 'I am not dead….I am not a monster……'

'What is the meaning of this?' Zargabaath demanded furiously from within his helmet as Larsa's eyes widened impossibly. Basch, under the guise of Gabranth, took a step back, swore hoarsely, and drew his double bladed sword. Instantly Fran moved, fingers flickering and a second later Basch was immobilised.

Larsa tried to speak, 'You…..you are not….' He could not find the words. Penelo dashed around the table to drop down beside him. She clasped the boy Emperor's gloved hand tightly.

'It will be alright, Larsa.' She promised him in a rough whisper. 'No one is blaming anyone, but it's true. Mister Rogan and his people are alive and they need help.'

Her blue eyes were intense and she turned to the terribly damaged man leaning against the table. 'This isn't about blame. This about doing the right thing to help people now we know there are people to help.'

Larsa leaped from his chair and jerked away from Penelo. The usually beautifully controlled and reserved Emperor's eyes were wild and his face blazed white.

'No,' he said and he pointed a shaking finger at the Nabradian Rogan. 'No, I will not believe this. There were no survivors of Nabradia.'

He turned to stare at Balthier and he was angry, so very, very angry. An expression passed across his face, lasting no more than a second, but in that second it was possible to see the shade of Vayne in Larsa's terribly youthful countenance.

'This is your doing; you who despise the Empire so much you would see her dragged down to ruin simply to justify your own prejudice.'

Larsa's eyes flashed rage as he faced the destruction of everything he had worked for; the compact of peace with Dalmasca, the good opinion of the lady Ashe and the rest of Ivalice – all would be lost now, because of _this_, because the sins of the past do not go away and the Empire's debts were weighed in thousands of lives ruined, sundered, and destroyed.

'Your own father was the architect of Nabudis' fall.' Larsa shouted at Balthier as the pirate remained quietly seated in his chair, head cupped in his palm watching with mild and remote eyes. 'Do you seek to shift the blame – or do you revel in any chance to bring shame and ruin to your homeland?'

Balthier merely looked at the over-wrought boy-emperor and smiled tiredly. The expression was inscrutable and he gave no indication he cared to defend himself. Fran swayed forward to stand by his chair. She too stared impassively at Larsa and the Magisters' from across the table. The Viera, with her hand on the chair back and the pirate slouched in said chair, seemed to exude an enigmatic unity of confidence and nonchalance that appeared quite indomitable.

Into the silence Rogan spoke again. 'We waited for rescue…..days, weeks, months….years…….some died and rose again monsters…..our children died and rose again, maligned…..we waited, waited…..no one came….forgotten we have been…..our allies as our enemies abandoned us for dead…'

Larsa stood shaking by his overturned chair. He clenched his fists and shook so hard he seemed almost to convulse. His eyes were too wide and his lips formed a pursed white line that nevertheless trembled despite how thin and taut it was.

'Stop it,' the boy Emperor did not look at the man across the table, because to look was to acknowledge and there are some horrors, some debts of guilt, too great to handle at any age. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the two pirates. They must be responsible for all this.

Penelo hovered close to Larsa watching him with pained eyes, but did not know what comfort to give – she rather thought that there was none. Basch remained frozen by more than just a spell and Zargabaath could only stare through the visor of his helm. He was a man of unshakable adherence to his duty, but at this moment he could not think to defend his Emperor. As the only true survivor of the old regime he stared across the table and saw the manifestation of his own guilt made flesh. He could not look away from this creature who would call himself a man.

'Enough with this charade; this cruel mummery,' Larsa demanded of the two pirates. 'I have never acted against you, either of you. All I desire is to make my home something all can be proud of.'

The Nabradian moved, no more than shifting his weight, but it drew the eye of all in the room. Larsa stared at the Nabradian and the Nabradian stared back. The spell of denial collapsed. A single tear escaped Larsa's eye and he swiped at it with a trembling white gloved hand.

'I am sorry.' Larsa said through clenched teeth, voice shaking. 'I am sorry for what my country, my father, and my _brother_ did to you. I cannot be more sorry!' He cried desperately turning wild eyes to stare at everyone in the room.

'Do you not think I would turn back the hands of time and stop my brother and Doctor Cid if I could? Do you think Nabudis' destruction is a burden I carry lightly?'

In the far corner of the room by the door Vaan looked down studiously at the richly carpeted floor. Penelo bit her lip and twisted her hands together wretchedly but said nothing. Balthier and Fran remained saturnine in their silence; closed books in regards whether they enjoyed Larsa's distress or not. The two judges, one with guilt his own through a lack of action in the past, and the other guiltless, but wearing the mantle of a brother collaborator, knew there was nothing they could do to defend Larsa from this moment.

Larsa looked around the room at those who would not look at him and those who did and seemed to look right through him. 'I do not know what you want from me.' He exclaimed almost piteously. 'What more can I do?'

Rogan stared at the boy in tears; he struggled to formulate the words he had waited three years to speak.

'Help us.' The Nabradian asked of the Archadian. 'Help us.'

Larsa seemed to almost collapse into his chair once more, covering his face in his white gloved hand. Penelo gently touched his hand and the boy clasped at hers tightly. He was always so very, very alone.

Penelo gave him a tremulous smile. 'It will be alright. No one is doing this to hurt you Larsa.' She glanced obliquely towards the still silent Balthier, 'This can help Archadia, just as it will help Nabradia.'

'How?' Larsa beseeched, 'Soon all Ivalice will see what monstrous cruelty the Empire is truly capable of.' He threw out a hand towards Rogan, 'Do you not see what horrors my kinsmen unleashed upon this man? Do you not see?' he demanded.

'Empire's cruelty is well known,' Fran spoke, surprising the others in the room that might have expected Balthier to be the first to break their silence. 'The byways and highways of Ivalice whisper and sing with tales of Empire's fearsome might, and did so, long before Nabudis.'

Fran had perched herself on the arm of Balthier's chair and she now regarded Larsa with eyes that might almost have been called compassionate. After a moment she turned to Rogan and nodded to the man respectfully.

'Here now is time for a new song to be sung.' The Viera said. 'Let it be spoken that Empire, though she cannot erase the pain she has caused, turns her great might to making amends. Let a new chorus rise in Ivalice; let the voices tell that Archadia pays her debts in kindness, in honour, and in sorrow.'

Fran's eyes pierced through Larsa, 'Let it start with this man and his people, and though you cannot ever do _enough_ for all ill deeds wrought, you do all that _you _can.'

Larsa wiped his hands over his face and turned frightened eyes to Rogan, 'I do not know how to help you.' He whispered. 'I know not what was truly done that night in Nabudis. I cannot undo this wrong.'

Rogan said the only thing he could, 'Help us.'

Larsa's face twisted but a movement from the pirate duo saved him from being forced to speak. Fran shook back her fall of hair. She rested one hand on the back of the chair as she made herself more comfortable before she spoke.

'To undo will ne'er be in your power,' she told Larsa in the implacable voice of truth, 'but to help, to care, to _try_,' she paused and exchanged an odd look with the still and quiet Balthier before returning her solemn gaze to Larsa and the Judges'. 'This be your gift,' she told the boy-emperor, 'use it now; _help_ and let the cruel cycle end.'

For the longest moment no one spoke. Vaan moved forward from his space almost forgotten at the back of the room. Without a word he pulled out a chair and helped Rogan to sit in it. The Nabradian shuddered as if not used to even such small comfort as a chair to sit in. Larsa reached a hand across the table towards Rogan. It still shook violently.

'I am truly sorry; so, so sorry.' Larsa repeated. 'I give,' the boy licked his lips, '….I give my word….whatever can be done for you will be done. This I swear: the men and women of Nabudis will be abandoned and forgotten no longer.'

Rogan blinked filmy eyes at the outreached hand. Three years of being viewed as a monstrous fiend had made him unaccustomed to such gestures. Rogan did not see the hand of his enemy; he did not see the representative of the Empire that had wrought such pain and destruction upon him. Such matters had long ceased to matter to a man like Rogan. All he saw was another hume reaching out to him not in horror, not offering violence, but instead with the tenuous promise of help. Awkwardly, painfully, he extended his one good hand towards that white glove.

'Want to live again,' Rogan tried to explain what it was to be rendered not even a man, less than beast, to be cast aside and abandoned by the living world, in but a few hard too form words. 'Want to live in the world again.'

The Emperor's trembling fingers closed carefully around Rogan's damaged, blistered flesh.

'You will.' Larsa said. 'You will live again.'

Zargabaath cleared his throat and the sound would have been no less raw had he not been wearing his helm.

'I will dispatch the Alexander to Nabudis, my lord, as soon as she is finished refuelling in Archades.' He said in his careful, respectful tones.

'We will find all the survivors and bring them forthwith to Archades for treatment.' Underneath his helmet it seemed that the old soldier's voice shook.

The man Rogan looked up, '……no armour…..no helms……..I must take you……we hide…hide from men……' he shuddered and looked away, ashamed of what he and his people had become.

'We'll go too,' Vaan spoke up exchanging a look with Penelo. The boy rubbed the back of his neck. 'Ashe needs to know about this.' He said quietly and a little reluctantly. It wasn't hard to imagine what her majesty Dalmasca's reaction would be.

'She might take it better from me and Pen.' Vaan added dubiously.

Larsa managed to keep his trepidation from his face for the most part and nodded briefly in agreement. 'Yes, at once.'

Zargabaath saluted. 'With your permission, my lord, I would brief the men on these….developments….and,' Zargabaath paused to pull off his helm so he could meet Rogan's eyes, 'if master Rogan will permit, I would go amid the rest of his people. Those who are in greatest need can be taken to Archades via Remora this very night.'

The stately silver haired man's eyes were cast with unexpected and deep sympathy. 'The suffering of the people of Nabudis need not last an hour more than necessary, and it is long time past that Archades repay her debts in more than words alone.'

'Yes, yes that is a good idea.' Larsa looked up almost dazedly, still struggling against the shock of these developments.

He turned to Rogan. 'Will you permit this, sir? Will you permit my men to convey your sick and wounded to Archades, where they shall be offered the best care my capital can provide?'

Rogan nodded slowly; so many changes, come so fast, and hope was such an unfamiliar sensation to him now.

'Will speak with my people……' he turned to look at Zargabaath and the still helmed Gabranth. Words were not easy for him to wield but he managed to express his meaning well enough.

'No armour……see the faces…..not helms of metal.' He insisted. Zargabaath seemed taken aback by the prospect of the Archadian army moving around unmasked but Larsa was swift to agree.

'Yes – send out an order: all soldier's to go without their helms except in times of battle.' The boy Emperor, whom himself had never worn full armour, nodded resolutely. 'I think it good that the people see the true faces of Archadia's army from here on in.'

These words worked as a cue to action and Vaan and Penelo helped Rogan from his chair and out of the room. Zargabaath, helm clasped under his arm, followed them out. Soon it was just Larsa, Basch, Balthier and Fran in the room.

Basch spoke up, dropping his discarded helmet onto the table top and discarding with it his disguise, at least for the time being.

'How long have you known the true fate of Nabudis?' He demanded suspiciously of the two pirates.

Balthier turned a neutral regard onto Basch but maintained his silence. Fran cocked her head to the side. For the longest moment it seemed that neither had any inclination to respond. There was something almost synergistic in their combined silence.

The strangeness was confounded by the fact that Balthier was still yet to say a word since entering the room. Fran, perched on the chair arm, was more of a presence than he, almost as if the two had switched roles.

Larsa licked his dry lips, well aware of his previous outburst against the man seated across from him on the other side of the table. He was acutely aware of what that outburst had revealed about his own feelings towards Balthier and the insecurities he had regards his own position. Larsa would not presume to know much of anything about the other man's character, but he would be prepared to wager that Balthier was shrewd and sly enough to recognise the power and advantage Larsa's outburst had given him. The boy-emperor could do nothing but wait to see how the pirate would choose to exploit this exposed weakness.

'Some twenty hours; no more,' Fran answered Basch's almost forgotten question coolly. 'When taken by Eraldo to the Necrohol Balthier was aided by those he thought were undead. It was thus that we discovered the truth.'

'Then this is not…' Larsa hesitated, 'You do not intend to render the Nabradians as leverage against the Empire?'

Balthier and Fran exchanged a silent look between them. After a moment Balthier offered up a lazy shrug and slouched comfortably down into his chair. He nodded for Fran to do the talking for both of them. This alone was enough to startle Basch. Balthier's passivity was truly disturbing.

'You assume we have power to exert such leverage.' Fran rejoined pointedly arching a brow. 'You accord us more power than is ours to use, we think.'

Larsa and Basch both frowned. There was something beyond peculiar, and beyond strange, about the two pirates. Not only was it highly out of character for Balthier to remain so silent, but it seemed almost as if the great depth of understanding the two pirates had always shared between them, had matured into an even greater symbiosis. It almost seemed that Fran could _literally_ speak for both of them. They appeared like two beings with the one mind and will. The impression was an eerie one, indeed. Basch was not at all sure he would be able to cope if Fran began calling him 'Judge Imposter' with an arrogant curl of the lip, as Balthier was wont to do.

Larsa cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his chair, 'Then you have not come to barter terms between Balfonheim and Archades?' he asked in abject confusion.

'Depends,' Balthier murmured, returning to life and animation so suddenly it seemed almost as if someone had just flipped a switch to power up his engine. The break in the pirate's silence was so sudden Larsa jolted in his seat. Balthier caught the movement and smirked insouciantly, before drawling with total indifference. 'What terms of treaty does the Empire offer a ruined pirate town?'

Basch shifted his weight with a creak of armour. 'Larsa is prepared to present any terms _Balfonheim_ would like to offer before the Senate.' He said gruffly, 'It is for the Senate to decide if Balfonheim warrants special treatment.'

'Hmm? So the onus falls on us to make demands of Empire?' Balthier's eyes danced wickedly, 'What an odd way to do business, for an Emperor.'

The lazy disrespect in Balthier's tone immediately had Basch on edge. He remembered how difficult and unhelpful Balthier had been during the crisis in Lemures (a crisis Balthier had had a hand in helping to escalate due to his thievery, no less). Basch did not relish having to deal with Balthier in that mood. Damn the man for his mercurial temperament – and to think, Basch had once admired the pirate for his seeming common sense and decisiveness. How very little he had known, back then, of Balthier's wildly uneven character.

Thankfully for Basch's temper, after saying his piece Balthier once more subsided into the strange morass of passivity he had adopted since entering the Ifrit. The pirate relaxed back into the upholstery of his chair and actually closed his eyes, as if dismissing the whole affair from his consciousness. Basch found himself halfway to reaching for his sword. There was no man alive or dead who could irritate and infuriate quite like Balthier.

'We wonder,' Fran brushed aside the shorter tendrils of hair that curled and clustered around her cheeks. She regarded Larsa and Basch with something akin to amusement gleaming in her almond tilted eyes, 'If the Emperor might want to speak of other terms – those that have bearing upon matters closer to his own heart.'

Fran flicked her gaze over Larsa tapping her long fingers over the back of the chair. 'Spoke you did to me,' she said addressing Larsa directly this time, 'of friendship not so long ago. We wonder now, if that offer, you would now choose to take from the table?'

Larsa blinked in total surprise at this sudden about-turn in proceedings, 'I would never turn aside an offer of friendship,' he said honestly. 'But in all things there are terms that must be carefully considered,' He added warily, but not impolitely.

Balthier smirked at that delicate evasion but did not speak. He fixed his own steady regard on Larsa just as Fran did and the similarity of those looks was truly disconcerting. Basch shifted his weight again, both disturbed and uneasy.

Basch was of the opinion that, if Balthier and Fran had been a gift to Ashe during her quest and worked to ease her burden and clear her path, then during the crisis in Lemures they had been, in some cases (primarily Balthier – though Fran had done little to mitigate the situation), no better than indifferent opportunists offering no information when they had it, and allowing even Vaan and Penelo to venture great risk, simply because they had not the will to raise arms to aid them. It had been Lemures truly, that had soured Basch's opinion of the pirates considerably and he now looked on them with antagonised suspicion.

'Speak plain.' He exhorted them. 'What angle do you play?'

Fran looked up at Basch then, and appeared to read everything he had been thinking from his face with in one glance. She flicked her ears and took on a brisk manner of speech more in keeping with her usual manner.

'Balfonheim has not the resource to rebuild; with Empire's Gil the port will grow. In exchange for exemption from the usual taxation Balfonheim will be home to the refugees of Nabudis.' She met Basch's eyes calmly. 'These are the terms we offer.'

Fran flicked her gaze back and forth between Basch and Larsa as she spoke more, 'Ashe will not abide to permit those of her late husband's kingdom to reside in Archades. The inferred insult is too great. Yet Draklor is the only key to their restoration.'

She shrugged one shoulder and once again shared a lightning quick and silent communion with Balthier before continuing. 'Thus Balfonheim, that was once safe haven to the queen in exile and holds no bias, shall prove good compromise betwixt and between.'

Larsa frowned, thinking swiftly. 'The senate will not countenance allowing the port to continue to traffic in illegal wares. If Balfonheim would have advantage of Empire she must abide by Empire's mandate.'

'Exemption under section eighteen of the mandate of colonisation,' Balthier spoke up again as abrupt and unexpected as the last time. He had closed his eyes once more and his face was still in repose.

'Unless the statutes have changed in the last seven years,' he said without the honey-poison of his previous utterances, 'the law stands that in certain circumstances where it is in the interest of the Empire as a whole, a new colony may continue to administer their own justice, and invoke their own local authority over trade, whilst still remaining a part of Empire.'

Balthier opened his eyes and smiled; an odd and vaguely bitter, but also wistful, smile. 'I was always a good student, your honour. I remember my judiciary training well enough.'

'Balfonheim is not a colony,' Basch argued. 'Presently it is not much of a town.' He added a little acerbically.

'And yet,' Fran rejoined whiplash fast, 'soon she shall be haven for the last remnants of Nabudis - and is not Nabradia a conquered territory of Empire? Do her people not deserve to be treated as such?'

Basch opened his mouth in surprise and shock. Now Fran was even beginning to mimic some of the bite of her partner's sharp tongue. Had Basch not believed it impossible, he might have thought the pair had switched minds and bodies.

'In return for the right to administer her own rules of commerce and law,' Balthier murmured before Basch could think of anything to say. 'The Balfonheim ship yards and aerodrome will agree to perform maintenance for the Imperial patrols of air and sea along the Phon Coast.'

Balthier regarded Basch very keenly. 'You cannot tell me that the Empire is not sorely in need of a refuelling and maintenance site on the southern coast.' He argued dryly. 'Archades is several hours' flight inland from here, and the fuel depot in Saffroza Bay is deep out to sea.'

Basch didn't bother to wonder how it was that Balthier would know of the Empire's ever present resource allocation concerns. It was the sort of thing both Fran and Balthier seemed to make it their business to know (perhaps because they had made a career of stealing those scant resources?)

'And so Balfonheim would expect the Empire to waive taxation and then pay for services rendered?' Larsa asked bemused.

'No,' Fran replied. 'This will be service given in exchange of the taxes many cannot afford to pay.'

Balthier's brown eyes were mild as he took up the narrative. 'You cannot wring blood from a stone, and you cannot squeeze taxes out of pauper pirates.' He pointed out patiently. 'But Balfonheim knows boats and she knows airships and the workers of the Aerodrome and the shipyard always need work.' He flapped a hand casually, 'Imperial or not, they don't give a damn so long as they are paid.'

'And how will wages be paid if the service is rendered freely?' Larsa frowned, 'If one is to accept the compromise of labour in exchange for taxation that does not take into account the needs of the people for Gil to subsist.'

Fran's gaze flicked to Balthier again; her expression complicated and hidden. 'Balfonheim will pay the wages of her people through other means; the port needs not handouts.' She said enigmatically.

'What other means?' Larsa and Basch demanded simultaneously instantly alert. They were in no way reassured when Balthier's wide and expressive mouth curved up in a scimitar like grin.

'Does it matter, so long as it costs the Empire nothing, hm?'

Fran nodded speaking before either Judge or Emperor could draw breath, 'We would speak of another matter; one of import to Archades, and to us.'

Larsa frowned, 'What matter would that be?'

'Draklor,' The renegade son of the late Doctor Cid said with a certain dark relish.

'What?' Basch squeaked in his armour.

The Magister and Larsa stared at Balthier, sure they had misheard. Larsa once again shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.

'Draklor?' He repeated incredulously.

'Yes.' The pirate hume purred. Fran's long clawed fingers tapped on the chair back as she watched the Emperor and his guardian Judge just as keenly as did Balthier.

'What of Draklor?' Larsa asked more than a trifle hesitantly.

'I want Draklor.' Balthier elaborated with almost callous bluntness. 'I want the labs, I want the secrets; in short gentleman, I want it all.'

'I don't understand.' Larsa admitted in total confusion after a long, long moment of silence. 'What can you, you who disdain the Empire, who ran from your father and actively rebelled against the designs of Archadia, want with the laboratory?'

Larsa shook his head trying to puzzle out the pirate's motivation and finding only more questions. He continued as one might try to argue another out of a bad purchase or poor decision.

'Draklor was stripped of most of Cid's designs, his schematics, his works on nethicite; everything pertaining to the Occuria. All your father's research, since his return from Giruvegan, was handed over to the Gran Kiltias as part of the amnesty treaty between the Empire and the other nations of Ivalice over a year ago.'

'We seek not nethicite,' Fran said somewhat disdainfully. Her clawed fingers continued to tap, tap, _tap_ on the back of Balthier's chair. 'Let the past rest where it can hurt no one. Our object is something more benign, but perhaps, of greater worth by far to all.'

Larsa was unnerved and recognised that there was little to be gained by attempting to hide the fact. 'What object can you possibly seek in Draklor?' He asked simply enough.

'I'm tired of running,' Balthier stirred in his chair and leaned forward across the table, palms splayed over the glossy surface. His smile was sharp as a knife.

'My father destroyed kingdoms, as you so rightly said. Now he is dead and _I_ want to rebuild all that he destroyed. Give me Draklor,' Balthier said precisely, 'and I'll give you something I suspect you want rather badly, in return.' The pirate smirked lazily. 'I'll turn myself over to the Empire.'

Larsa felt a certain fission of something sharp and bright run down his spine. A child weaned on politics Larsa wondered if Balthier could possibly mean what he said. The young Emperor found himself considering the political fallout and, more pressingly, the potential uses handing over the reins of Draklor to another Bunansa would evoke within the Empire and without.

What manner of message would it send out to all Ivalice if the Prodigal Bunansa, Archadia's greatest ever dissident, returned willingly to his homeland and took a part in the reformation of the Empire?

Larsa's heart thumped excitedly in his chest. Even the truth about Nabradia could be mitigated somewhat if it was revealed that the famed pirate Balthier discovered the survivors only to then return with them to Archades and throw himself, with the support of the new senate and the new judiciary, into the work of finding a cure and righting past wrongs.

'You would….you are suggesting that you return to Archades as part of any negotiations between Archadia, Balfonheim, and Dalmasca?'

Larsa licked his lips. Behind him Basch seemed to almost hum with tension as he watched the two pirates.

'You would be prepared to barter yourself as part of the negotiations?' He added trying not to say anything that the pirate might enjoy refusing simply out of spite. 'That is what you are offering? In exchange for favourable terms for Balfonheim, you will come home to Empire?'

Larsa's mind was racing; he knew that the amount of leverage Balthier could bring with him was the political equivalent of picking up Mount Bur Omisace by hand and moving the mountain from Kerwon to Ambervale. If Cidolfus had been the engine powering Archades former war machine, was it conceivable that Larsa could use the younger Bunansa as the vehicle to power his reforms? Would Balthier even allow him that indulgence?

The pirate in question was watching him with strangely patient eyes. Fran too seemed to know precisely what thoughts danced through Larsa's head. He had the strangest sense that the old adage "beware what you wish for" might be rather pertinent right now. Certainly anyone who thought to manipulate either pirate could only be cursed for a fool – and was like as not to find himself the one being used.

'Hm,' Balthier agreed casually and for a moment Larsa wondered if he in fact responded to Larsa's thoughts rather than his words. 'As you say; and as I am feeling generous – I shall even bring my Moogle friends with me to the Empire.'

Larsa frowned in confusion as a very incongruous, and not a little worrisome, grin suddenly ruined Balthier's deliberately nonchalant composure. The pirate beamed up at Fran and released a peal of mirthful laughter.

'I think it high time Grand Arcade was introduced to the philosophy of the Fraternity of Kupo. The fallout from that alone will be well worth the ignominy of returning home.'

In a moment's mildly terrified clarity it came to Larsa that the revelation of the Nabradians was but a ripple in the ocean compared to the seismic shift Balthier could incite within Archades. Doctor Cid, after all, had only wanted to make war…..Balthier, well, the gods only knew what he wanted, or what he might create with Draklor in his hands. Was Larsa prepared to unleash the prodigal on the unsuspecting citizens of the capital?

The pirate held out a bejewelled hand across the table, 'Well, m'lord, what is it to be, hm? Do we have a deal?'

Larsa did not look to Basch, for he was Emperor and must be resolute in his decisions. Instead the young Emperor did what he did best. He thought things through.

He thought about undead who were not undead and pirates who made sport of defying mortality and all reasonable expectations regards their behaviours. He thought about his Empire's past and her present. He thought about the halcyon future he would usher in. He thought about Draklor, stripped of her greatest creations, almost empty, unused. He thought of the innovation that would be needed to transform Archadia from what she was, to what Larsa longed for her to be. He made his decision and could only hope they would all survive it.

Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor reached out and grasped the ringed hand across the table.

'Yes,' he said, 'We have a deal. Draklor is yours, Ffamran Mid Bunansa.'


	37. Chapter 37

**Epilogue: 707 O.V: The Imperial Capital Archades**

Balthier woke with the lark and before the linnet. The scent of linen soap and fresh cotton filled his nose as he lifted his head from the pillow. Today was the day. Rolling over in his bunk Balthier stared up at the ceiling of his cabin aboard the Strahl and contemplated the steel in a cheerfully mindless sort of fashion for a few moments.

Today was the day. The big day; the pivot point for tomorrow….and various other clichés amounting to more or less the same thing.

Ten weeks of laborious, tedious negotiations; ten weeks of Ashe throwing her weight around as much because her councillors expected it as any real sentiment of emotion, and finally the ink was dry on the new treaties and the Nabradians had been transported en-masse to Balfonheim, or in the most severe cases, to the specially augmented medical facilities in the newly re-opened Draklor.

Today was significant for another reason however, because today was the day Ffamran (call me Balthier) Bunansa was invested with the directorship of the engineering and aviation department of the great Draklor labs. It was the post his father had once held when Ffamran was a boy.

Still Draklor was not the reason Balthier's heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest; Draklor did not scare him and never had. The lab was just a convenient foil.

Idly Balthier brushed a hand over the permanent mark of Fran's handprint emblazoned over his breastbone. Ten weeks after the initial injury and Balthier was now mostly recovered, but every now and then he felt a definite twinge deep to the chambers of his heart. He suspected he always would – dying wasn't something a man shrugged off that easily.

With a deep sigh Balthier forced himself into action finally. He threw back the sheets and swung his legs down onto the cold floor of his cabin. Moving gingerly across the cabin to his sink he washed and shaved and groomed himself to the usual high standards before contemplating the wonders awaiting him in his closet.

What does a former dissident criminal and military deserter wear to his investiture back into Archadian high society, hm? A noose; a hair shirt with matching flagellation whip; an apology? Well Balthier didn't possess any of the above and wasn't about to apologise for anything – he'd been right, after all.

Perusing the depths of his closet Balthier mused on the vagaries of life in some detail. Generally speaking pondering the expanses of his closet was the time Balthier took to really stop and take stock of his life.

It really was a funny old Ivalice, he decided on this particular morning. Every day for the last however many weeks Balthier had awoken only to ask himself how it was that things had fallen out in this manner. In the last year he'd gone from crashing a sky fortress into the doldrums of intense boredom, to a trip over the edge into despair, then on to a short sojourn beyond death and back to life again. Even by his frenetic standards this had been an event filled year.

Now he was back in Archades – and of his own volition. It really was a funny old business – being alive that is. In comparison death was positively straightforward.

Jules (that slimy son of a gigantoad) had been delighted to discover that his 'old mate' master Ffamran had come home to take up the old man's former work. The street ear had been almost salivating with joy. It was possible to see him thinking over the best ways to manipulate state secrets out of Balthier like watching the wheels turning in the creaky clockwork of his rat-like mind.

For his part Balthier had decided to take the high road for once and had refrained from shooting the loathsome little man right then and there. Fran had been greatly impressed with his unusual show of restraint.

Of course Jules was just the proverbial tip of the purvama.

His once almost-sweetheart Anna Zargabaath had been equally delighted to discover that he was returning to Archades and had seized upon the opportunity to exact her own, rather long and drawn out revenge on Balthier for that little act of kidnapping back in the day.

The dreadfully populist rag she wrote for had, subsequent to his arrival, started running a very successful, completely contrived, serialisation of Balthier's life story (or at least the paper alleged it was his life story). Balthier, who actually lived his life, had suggested otherwise, but no one seemed inclined to care.

Presently the serial had reached a point where brave (but secretly very patriotic in a strangely anti-Imperial way) Ffamran Bunansa discovers the wild and untamed Viera beauty Fran. The illustrations that accompanied Anna's outrageous and possibly libellous flight of fancy could make the eyes pop.

Balthier had thought he might have to restrain Fran the first time she had laid eyes on the artistic interpretation of her physical form the cartoonist had created. Balthier himself had not realised his beautiful partner was _quite_ so well endowed. It was a wonder she could bear the weight of mammary glands and stand upright.

(Equally disturbing was the sheer number of times that, for seemingly no reason whatsoever, illustrated Balthier's shirt seemed to fall off. Firstly this annoyed him because Balthier always took exemplary care of his apparel and disliked the idea that he would wear shoddy clothing and, secondly, because he wasn't bloody Vaan to go haring about with nipples to the wind).

In conclusion it could said that Anna was a woman who knew how to exact the perfect revenge, and had that revenge not involved his public mortification Balthier might have been impressed by the artistic refinement of her sadism.

Eventually and back in the present of the moment, after much time spent standing in a stupor before his closet, Balthier finally settled for his usual white shirt and back lacing vest emsemble. The vest was a highly becoming velvet green with black fretwork, and the boots he wore over his comfortable well fitted black trousers were some of the nicest he owned.

As he always did in the morning Balthier carefully checked the contents of his belt pouches before twinning his double belts around his hips.

Ready to face Ivalice at large – or at least Archades – Balthier left his cabin. He already knew that Fran was elsewhere and so didn't bother to look for her. Nono, he soon discovered, was also absent.

Balthier was a trifle concerned about Nono's absence, as the Moogle founder of the altruistic Fraternity of Kupo, had been somewhat too enthusiastic when Balthier had suggested that Archades was a potentially untapped market for conversion to the ways of Kupo. The thought of what the Moogle might be doing presently to profligate the message of the Fraternity was just a little worrisome.

There would be blood on the streets and cultural revolution in the high echelons of Grand Arcade by the end of the week, Balthier could feel it in his bones. No force in all Ivalice could stand against the sheer irrepressible force of Nono in full evangelical fervour, after all.

Well, it couldn't be helped. That was the price of enlightenment, or so Nono had told him.

Balthier shrugged off his slight concerns and left the Strahl. His best girl was still not up to snuff; her left wing retracting coupling was stiff and unwieldy and the aft-glossair ring in the back was still not rotating properly. This was a source of some guilt for Balthier as he was, more or less exclusively, responsible for the Strahl's present lack of perfection.

Of course matters were in hand to remedy this situation. Balthier intended to fully exploit his new position as head of one of the greatest aviation labs in Ivalice to finally give his Strahl she deserved. Yes, doing so was a flagrant abuse of power for personal gain, but then again, Balthier had spent the last seven years as a pirate – he saw no conflict of interest whatsoever. His interests were solely invested in his own gain and ever had been.

He did feel somewhat conflicted, in a general and quasi-metaphysical sense, however, as he entered the city from one of the outlying residential districts. It was all so bloody strange. It left one feeling quite out of sorts.

Seven years had gone by but familiar landmarks in the city had withstood the test of time, and seemingly, Balthier's best attempts to forget them; the bench in Grand Arcade where he had sat and watched the skies as a boy was still there; the view exactly as he remembered. The Watertoll Bridge where he vaguely remembered walking with his Nanny Penpo as a very young child was still just as quaint and peaceful. The gate of Akademy brought back the vivid memories of name-calling and hair pulling from his less than halcyon school days. All of it exactly the same as he had left it.

On an intellectual level Balthier supposed that it made sense that he should feel a trifle conflicted walking the streets of the Imperial capital, especially as a free man. He was supposed to be a dissident; a loud and determined critic of all things Imperial. If there was any justice he should have come back to the city for his execution and no other reason.

Still it wasn't any highbrow political or even ethical considerations that made him squirm even as he looked around him like a wide-eyed and filthy Vulgar who had just made it up to the heights of the city. Balthier could live quite happily and without a twinge of conscience if it was merely a matter of turning his political coat. (He had always been good at desertion, after all). What he found harder to live with was the strange sense of pleasure he felt every time he found some facet of his old life still extant and vital here in the city Imperial.

He'd told Fran that he needed to walk on the ground like any other man, but what he had meant was that he needed to walk the streets of his home again. He needed to know what had changed and what had not. He needed to know how much of his disdain for Archades was fabricated from his resentment towards Doctor Cid and the regime the old man had once been a proud proponent of.

Balthier needed to remember _why_ he hated so he could decide if that hate was justified. He needed to find his Archades, because once upon a time, this city had been his home just as it had always been Cid's.

In the quiet of the morning Balthier's feet moved silently over the affluent residential street he walked down. The golden brick facades of the townhouses were as he remembered; implacably Archadian with swept front stoops and wide front doors, raised from the street level by a series of steps. The trees lining the street were heavy with bright green leaves. There was an oddly ordered neatness to it all. Every paving stone in place, every window sparkling clean, every bush, shrub, or tree groomed and tamed to Archadian standards of perfection.

The rebel in Balthier very, very badly wanted to pitch a rock through one of those lace curtain swathed windows; just to break the monotony of sterile perfection. Of course, he'd have a bugger of a job finding a rock to hurl in the first place around here.

He picked up the pace when the silent neatness started to make him uncomfortable and was rather relieved to finally make his way out of the still, artificially perfect residential quarter and into the slightly less perfect and slightly more active Molberry district of the city.

Balthier (or Ffamran as was) had always liked Molberry.

Molberry district was filled with eateries, bakeries, butchers, tailors, and an upstairs tavern that could comfortably house no more than twenty people at a time. The tavern had existed when Balthier had been a cadet in the Imperial Army Elites. It was called "Barnum's Engine House" - why it was called that Balthier did not know, and wasn't sure anyone else did either.

This early in the morning the district was quiet. The scent of breakfast pastries wafted out of an open hatch facing out to the street from Mona's Quality Eatery and Balthier stopped to savour the aroma of fresh baked bread, jam rolly-polly, apple turnover, and mince pies. Across the street Ernst Tailoring for the Discerning Gentleman was still closed. Balthier made a mental note to check in later with the tailor to see if his order had been filled yet.

'Morning master Balthier,' a young ardent boy, bright faced and with that avaricious and eager gleam in his eyes, bounded over to Balthier carrying a satchel loaded full of newspapers. The satchel was almost too large for the boy to carry. Balthier eyed the rolled newspaper the boy held before him like a rapier in the way one might look warily on a loaded weapon.

'Want a copy of today's paper?' The boy asked him impishly. 'You're on the front page today sir.'

Balthier rolled his eyes. 'I'm always on the bloody front page.' He muttered handing over the right amount of Gil plus a coin or two for the boy and snatching up the offered rolled newspaper.

It was true, as well. The Prodigal's return to Archades had warranted more type face than the new treaty signing with Balfonheim and Dalmasca and had garnered far more attention than the miraculous survival of the Nabradians combined. There was so much wrong with this alone that Balthier gave up trying to quantify the individual flaws within the Archadian public consciousness and simply accepted that the Archadian mind was a very strange one.

He eyed the ardent newspaper boy, who was called Ian, with a wary look. 'How bad is it?' He knew the boy would know precisely what he meant.

The boy beamed at him, 'Yer shirt gets ripped off in the second drawing.'

Balthier sighed, 'Bloody marvellous.' He shook his head and gestured for the boy to be off, 'Go on with you then.'

The boy scampered off. He was headed for the sky cab dock in Trant where he would catch the workers on their way to open stores, and the shoppers on their way to loiter in the streets. Soon hundreds of people would be treated to another illustrated centrefold spread of Balthier's equally illustrated nipples. It was galling, unutterably galling, to think on.

Balthier followed the boy at a much more sedate pace towards the cab rank. The sky above was heavy with faintly grey clouds and the humidity was building even at this early hour. Somewhere beyond the cottony quilt of cloud the sun was waiting to bake the red brick streets of the capital once again. Balthier tucked the newspaper under his arm. He never read it without Fran present – partly because he gained a perverse enjoyment out of witnessing her unguarded disgust (she was so rarely demonstrably incensed, after all, that it was something of a treat to see).

A trio of Imperial guardsmen clanked up the road from the opposite direction. Balthier suspected that they were looking to break their fast with a morning pastry before taking up sentry duty at the port or the bridge spanning the river leading to Old Archades. Balthier's fingers flexed against his thighs as he passed the trio; it was still passing strange to saunter by an Imperial without incurring instant arrest or worse.

'Aight mate?' One of the guardsmen waved a gauntleted hand. His visor was up and the face he turned to Balthier was that of an adolescent Vaan's age. A muscle in Balthier's jaw twitched but he forced himself to nod politely and pass by without incident. He didn't breathe out until the trio had clanked away.

Archades was a city mired in the past for Balthier; he still remembered the days when he had dragged himself through the city in plate mail every miserable sodding day. Looking into that idiot guard's milksop face it really didn't seem that long ago.

Trant was already growing busy when he reached the district; the sky cabs were operative and streams of people were already spilling out onto the streets in a wash of iridescent silks and parasols. The opera house had employed a young ardent girl fresh up from Old Archades to run around promoting an upcoming line up of new arias and the poor girl seemed completely confused. It was doubtful she even knew what an opera was.

In the distance the red spires of the Imperial Square and Grand Arcade loomed above. Draklor's ornate and imposing architecture stood proud, dwarfed but not cowed, by the immense spire of the Imperial tower. The high echelons of Archadian society, represented by that thicket of spiky spires, appeared to resemble nothing so much as a fistful of needles driving up into a milky white sky.

The soft click of heels over street paving heralded Fran's arrival. 'You are dithering.' She murmured dryly coming to lean against the railing beside him.

Fran too liked to wander the streets of the Imperial capital early and alone. Balthier never asked her where she went just as she did not ask him what he thought about as he drifted along these once familiar streets.

'I'm entitled,' Balthier told her, 'Tomorrow I shall be expected to work for a wage; therefore I shall enjoy my last day of indolence to the fullest.'

Fran made a soft noise, half amusement, half disdain. 'I would sooner believe the sun shall fall from the sky than believe you will ever work when you have no will to. Wage or no, you are not to be tamed.'

Balthier smiled thinly leaning against the railing over looking the river and beyond that the rise of the higher city. 'Yes, but the good tax payers of Archades do not need to know that.'

Fran cocked her head to the side; he suspected she was listening to the sounds of the city he could not, and never would be able, to hear. She twitched her nose minutely, sifting through scents he could not catch on the breeze. He almost asked her what she sensed from the capital – was it fair or foul to her nose – but he didn't. In some ways he felt it better not to know. Instead he covertly examined his partner's chosen attire for the day.

Fran had chosen to wear today a modified tunic in the dove blue-grey colour of Draklor researchers and Balthier suspected this could be nothing but a deliberate choice. The tunic clung to her powerful, yet lithe, physique in a way that could only be described as alluring.

Since entering the city as a resident, not a secret saboteur, Fran had modified her manner of dress. Her usual attire, coupled with the prevalence of those bloody illustrated stories in Anna's paper, had made too much the stir in buttoned down and habitually repressed Archades society. It had grown embarrassing to see grown men break into cold sweats while gawping at his Fran.

Ordinarily Fran cared not for the ill-mannered looks of humes, but the sheer volume of attention she had received had motivated Fran to modify her wardrobe somewhat while staying in the city. Today she was wearing a hat, with a long pale lilac feather, jauntily perched on her head. She had cut the fabric of the hat to create ear holes and she wore her hair loose. Balthier thought her outfit quite fetching indeed.

'You make for Draklor?' She asked him nodding her head to the nearby sky cab rank. Balthier shook his head, tucking away further appreciation of Fran's charms for a latter moment of reflection.

'Not yet - wouldn't do to be seen as too keen.' He smirked. 'I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression regards my motivation and work practices.'

'Ah,' Fran cocked her head to the other side, eyes thrown into shadow by the brim of her hat. 'So today is the day? You will pay your visit, will you?'

Balthier sighed and turned to look down to the gun metal roil of the river below. His gaze tracked up to the filthy sprawl of Old Archades. He noted the collection of building supplies and the loitering knot of imported bangaa workers. Larsa's proposed renovation of the slums moved forward at a glacial pace, but at least something was happening down in the alleys.

'Yes,' Balthier agreed quietly. 'I think I'm overdue a visit.'

Fran was watching him and her hand, curled around the railing near his own, moved a fraction of an inch closer. 'You go alone?' She asked softly. Balthier flexed his fingers over the railing, causing his little finger to brush against hers.

'Yes, I think it best that way.' He watched a flat bottom barge, more rust than metal, ooze slowly up river towards the quay. The barge was loaded down with unrefined magicite ore.

'I shall not delay you, then.' Fran said stepping away from the rail. 'I shall await you at Draklor.' Her clicking steps began to recede and Balthier turned around and called after her.

'Fran.'

She stopped, turned, watched him from under the brim of her hat. Her unbound fall of white hair spilling down her back fluttered in the light breeze rising from the river. Her long, powerful legs demurely cloaked in elegant white stockings were still shapely and lovely. She waited for him to speak.

He smiled eyes twinkling as he arched a brow and gestured to her ensemble. 'I like the hat; the plume is particularly fetching.' His smirk widened, 'I dare say you shall start a trend with the women of this city before the day is out.'

(Balthier had already heard a rumour that there happened to be a particular gentleman's club in Rienna where the female wait staff had been encouraged to wear long, false fabric ears for the pleasure of the wealthy clientele. Balthier could only hope, for the sake of the poor old letches, that Fran never got wind of this.)

Fran was silently thoughtful for a moment, considering his compliment seriously, then she shook loose tendrils of her hair from around her face. 'Naturally,' she said finally, 'For is it not the manner of humes to wish to be as legends are?'

Balthier laughed as he heard the humour thick in her tone. 'So very true,' he agreed pulling the paper from under his arm and gently throwing it over to her.

'Here – for your reading enjoyment. Apparently I am shirtless by the second caption, once again.' Fran caught the paper neatly in one clawed hand.

'So long as I am not, I care not.' She told him fastidiously before turning on her heel and sauntering away. Balthier chuckled as he watched her depart. He had no doubt that the paper would be so much shredded pulp within the hour.

After a few more minutes just watching the city rise to wakefulness around him Balthier decided he had dithered long enough. He sauntered down to the sky cabs, flashed his chops, and settled in for the ride up town.

Before he was entirely ready for the journey to be over he had arrived before the imposing gates of Highhills Cemetery. He looked at the wrought iron with deep scepticism and not a little loathing.

How many years had it been since he'd last set foot in this supposedly hallowed ground? Something approaching eighteen years, he estimated. He wondered if the interior was as he remembered – did cemeteries change all that much, in any regards? It was not as though the dead cared for the whims of fashion.

Balthier shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun now fighting free of the milky clouds. The gleaming ribbons of lush green grass undulating in rising hills and gracefully sloping valleys had not changed since that one ill-starred day when he had come here with his father. The mausoleums were still there, just as he remembered, rising from the veldt of emerald green like bad teeth. The crypts were still huge, ornate and ostentatiously ugly, and the silence was anything but restful.

Balthier's palms itched, that old aversion to all things dead (sharpened by his own recent experiences of being almost deceased) rose up within him. His heart throbbed in the cage of his breastbone and he felt the twinge of his sword wound make its presence felt. A tickle of sweat prickled at his top lip and the back of his hands. He took a (supposedly cleansing) breath and pushed open the wrought iron gates.

The sentry trees lining the winding path through the cemetery appeared overburdened with a veritable bounty of foliage. They cast comfortable, dappled shadow over the still ominous white marble statues rising up beside the haphazard rows of headstones. Up on the far hill Balthier squinted at the large obsidian crypt housing Solidor's dead and gone. The twin serpent insignia of House Solidor, wrought in gold and rising from the steepled roof like a lightning rod, flashed in the sunlight as the clouds finally lost their battle and rays of golden light spilled down over the bone city like a flood.

It was going to be a warm pleasant day in the capital, but Balthier felt cold. He had promised himself that he would do this, that he would make this macabre pilgrimage, from the very moment he had decided to return to Archades while staring into a broken pane of glass in Balfonheim. For the last ten weeks he had managed to contrive means to avoid fulfilling that promise; reasons enough to slip back into that comfortable well of self-denial were easy to come by for a practice prevaricator like Balthier.

Not today, however. Today he was here and he would not run from this.

Inevitably his feet took him to the very doorstep of the Bunansa tomb. Balthier looked up at the dull white mausoleum, the heavy wooden door grown warped and in need of a good coat of varnish, and that damned bird perched atop the steeple roof that had so frightened him as a child.

He laughed abruptly to see that during the wear and tear of the years the eagle had lost its head. There was something fitting about that; the Bunansa guardian had lost its head, the Bunansa heir had flown the nest, and the last Bunansa lord had lost his mind.

The door to the tomb was locked, but trifles like that never bothered Balthier. He had the door open in a jiffy. A great rush of stale air assailed him as he hovered on the threshold looking down into the hot, close, claustrophobic depths of the crypt.

He could turn back; a traitorous little voice wheedled in his mind. No one would know – and it was not as though there was anyone inside who would care. This whole notion was ludicrous. He didn't owe his dead relations any observance.

Then again, this wasn't about making the posthumous acquaintance of his dead mother and his two dead brothers. This wasn't even about the father he had helped to kill.

In actual fact this had little to do with the actually dead and everything to do with Balthier and his own resolve to keep living. In a strange way it occurred to Balthier that cemeteries, funerals, all of it, had nothing whatsoever to do with the genuinely dead. They were all sops for the living; a means to defy the nothingness of death while seemingly enshrining it in marble.

Balthier descended into his father's tomb. His footsteps echoed on the dust covered stone steps loudly.

He lit the old crystal lamp wall sconce and was vaguely surprised to find it still functioned. Cobwebs hung like gossamer bunting from the ceiling and the corners of the rectangular chamber; heavy with dust. There was the unpleasant musty but astringent odour of vermin, rats possibly, hanging in the heavy air and Balthier curled his lip distastefully. He wouldn't be seen dead in such a hovel.

The walls were covered in names. Long dead Ffamran's and Cidolfus' from past generations, a few Mid's and Demen's flung in for good measure and some other names of ancestors Balthier couldn't care less about. Tracing the names Balthier finally came to a stop when his fingers, grimed in dust and muck, found the engraved epitaph for one Ezria Bunansa.

'Hello mother,' Balthier murmured, 'Sorry it has taken me so long to introduce myself. I'm your son, the one who killed you in childbed.' Balthier winced, feeling a fool even as he spoke, 'Dreadfully sorry about that.' He moved on to the next two names.

'Hyram, Vassili – brothers.' He hesitated but then decided that if this wasn't the time for honesty he'd be buggered if he knew a better time. 'Bugger-all but I wish one of you had lived, then our father could have made _you_ a sodding Judge and not _me_.'

Balthier stopped and considered if more aught be said. He had the feeling that, under these circumstances, another man might have felt some sudden and inextricable connection to his lost bloodline at this junction. Perhaps another man would weep for the mother who had never held him, or the brothers he had never had opportunity to compete with, but Balthier was not like other men. He could not contrive to feel anything for three people who had never existed as flesh and blood in his mind.

'Right well, glad we had this little chat, mother, brothers,' He nodded briskly to the cobweb covered plaques in abstract fashion. 'I for one feel much better.'

Balthier readied himself and released a pent up breath carefully. He stared at the newest name to be engraved in this tally of dead Bunansas.

'Hello old man.'

Fingers traced the stark and emotionless engraving of the name: _Cidolfus Demen Bunansa_ and the dates _648 - 706 Old Valendian._

That was all there was. No epitaph, no one to claim he would be missed or grieved for and to etch that promise into the cold stone alongside his name. Gods be damned there wasn't even a curse to rot in the fires of hell for that matter. Just the old man's name and his dates, and for a long time Balthier just stared at that cold steel plaque set into equally impersonal marble. If asked he would not have been able to say what it was he thought – if he thought at all.

_No pity for me_, those had been the bastard's last words, or near enough, back up in the Pharos as he melted away. Well, Cid had what he wanted then. Not even an epitaph left for the Empire's greatest weaponsmith. No funerary parade, no trooping of the colours and full honours as his plaque was sealed into place in this dingy, hot, and stifling stone prison.

'Was it really worth it, Cid?' Balthier's fingers continued to trace the curves of the letters, the harsh finality of the dates. 'History in the hands of man and all that, but blast it, what good did it do you?'

Balthier let himself lean forward until his brow was pressed against the cold stone. He laughed sourly.

'I aught know better than to even ask. This conversation has long since been over. You stopped listening years ago.'

He twisted around and let himself slide down the stone until he sat with his back to the marble just below his father's plaque.

From the inside of his belt pouch Balthier pulled out the carefully wrapped miniature portrait of father and infant son that he had carried with him, in secret, since the Filpots had given it to him. With the exception of the Strahl, this portrait was likely his most prized possession and he could barely even bring himself to look at it.

'Did you know that all your initials have been removed from the Remoras, and the Cutters, and the Rooks; from all the bloody weapons you made for the Empire?'

He asked the smiling man in the portrait as his fingers ran over and over the enamelled surface. 'Still use the things, of course, but the new, _moral_ Empire wouldn't sully herself by evoking the name of bloody Doctor Cid.'

Balthier felt heat build behind his eyes and forcibly ignored it. This was his opportunity to say his piece and he was not going to ruin it with over-wrought and trite emotionalism.

'You built this Empire, father.' He said quietly. 'You made her what she is, more than Gramis, more than sodding Vayne; it was you who served your mother country best.'

Balthier's lips twisted in disgust. 'You fed Empire's bloodlust and you invented her victories, and now the complacent _bastards_ try to use everything you made to exonerate their own guilt, but would deny that _you_ ever existed.'

Balthier leaped to his feet unable to stay seated. He clutched the portrait to his chest with one hand and spun on his heel to point a finger at the plaque set in the wall.

'Does that please you old man? Your precious Empire never loved you, Cid. They used you, all of them, the bloody judges, Vayne, even your beloved Venat. You were a _tool_ old man.'

It was only the pain as his knuckles rasped against the cold steel of the plaque that brought Balthier back to his senses. He stared at his grazed fist in surprise and drew back, trying to catch his breath. His lungs burned, his chest heaved, and his heart…his heart just hurt.

'Standing on the shoulders of the would-be gods, was it, you senile old fool?' Balthier sneered shaking his head almost sadly. 'You never realised, did you? History is only ever written by the _victors_, Cid – and you lost your war when you lost your mind to a bloody stone.'

Balthier looked away from the name and the dates, those meaningless dates, and looked down at the smiling man with the laughing baby captured for all time by some hack painter in miniature.

'You had it coming, old man.' His voice was soft as the dust smearing the floor. 'You deserved far worse than the death you received. Death is too good for you.'

The hot silence of the crypt swallowed his words like a sucking void. Balthier looked down at the dusty floor, where his feet had tracked footprints through the accumulated muck. He breathed in the scent of nothingness. It tasted like decay.

There just weren't any words; all this time and he'd been fighting with a dead man; arguing the toss with a lunatic - and it was a ruddy hard habit to break away from. After all, if he didn't keep talking to the old man, then no one would.

Balthier folded up the portrait in its specially made case once again, and then tucked it away in the kid skin cloth. He placed the portrait down on the dirty floor beneath the plaque like an offering. He straightened up, brushed off his hands, and turned away. It was time to get on with things; he'd pandered to the dead too long as it was.

Balthier stopped on the third step ascending out of the tomb. He'd left the door open (in response to an irrational terror of being trapped inside) and through the opening he could see streaks of blue sky slicing through the thin veil of dissipating cloud. He could hear the rustle of a warm breeze through tree branches and the almost subliminal murmur of the city below the hill.

It was time to move on; he had airships to build and a future to carve out for himself. There were matters to discuss between himself and Fran; very important and possibly emotionally uncomfortable matters, but necessary fodder for discussion all the same. he couldn't waste anymore time on those who had long since ceased caring one way or the other.

He had a life to live. The past did not control him anymore.

_Hadn't you best be off – fool of a pirate? _

'Damn it,' Balthier broke his paralyse, twisted on his heels and bounded back down the steps. He scraped over the dust covered floor, spoiling his own perfectly preserved footsteps. He scooped up the portrait, and in one fluid movement, stuffed it carefully back into his belt pouch once again.

Maybe the conversation was over; maybe he had failed to save the old man from himself. Maybe he'd never had a hope of doing so to begin with – but just because the bastard was dead and gone was no reason to stop trying. Cid might have given up the ghost, but Balthier hadn't.

Satisfied with an eternal stalemate, because stalemate was better than conceding defeat or living with hollow victory, Balthier bounded up the steps and out of the crypt. He slammed the door of the tomb without looking back. He took a deep, cleansing breath of fresh air and stared up at the sky. He released his breath.

'Well, that's done.' He said on the exhale. 'And to think, it only took me eighteen years to gather the courage.'

Balthier didn't waste time examining the scenery on the way back to the city, or indulging in any more introspection, instead he made haste for Draklor. He was already late for his own investiture.

Fran was waiting for him when the private sky cab dropped him off at the docking bay outside the sixty-seventh floor. Memories of his last visit to Draklor, accompanying Ashe, flitted through his mind. Hopefully there would fewer gigantic mastiffs trying to rip him limb from limb this time.

'Late, I see.' Fran clucked her tongue, 'You shall set a poor precedent.'

'Hmm, I do hope so.' Balthier looked over at the small knot of faces waiting for him by the doors leading inside.

The Imposter Gabranth was in attendance for this momentous occasion, and one or two senators whose names Balthier supposed he'd have to make a point of remembering. He also saw Anna smiling disarmingly and he scowled. No doubt tomorrow there would be a double page inside spread of himself, pointlessly shirtless, being given the key card to Draklor. He was fast coming to hate the woman, he truly was.

Fran came up by his side as one of the white and lavender clad senators gave some manner of self-important speech.

'You are sure of this Balthier?'

Balthier stood, arms folded across his chest, wondering how long he'd have to wait before he could get at the aviation labs. He wanted to do a full inventory of his own; his fingers itched to get his mitts on some of the parts sequested away in those sealed vaults. The sort of parts a man could not steal for love nor Gil in all Ivalice - and he should know, for he had tried it enough times.

'Bit late now for self doubt Fran,' he murmured back, 'But yes. I am sure.'

He glanced at his partner. He was fairly confident that had Fran not had her own interest in Draklor she would have said something by now, but even so…..'And you, Fran; ready to embark on a new career as an Archadian wage slave, hm?'

Fran gave him a droll look, both of them completely ignoring the Archadian pomposity going on around them. 'I am curious. I would see where this new path leads.' She told him and Balthier was reassured.

'Hm,' he smiled. 'It should be an entertaining diversion for a short while.' He shrugged, smile shading into an impish smirk, 'At least until I've harvested everything of worth from Draklor's vaults and re-fitted my girl with the best of Empire.'

'If they hang you I shall not save you.' Fran warned him dryly as the bumbling old fool of a senator continued to witter on to the bored gathering of gentry and officialdom who had nothing better to do with their day.

Balthier felt his smirk widen. He was sure that, even though the man's helm was on thus obscuring his face, Basch was glaring at him for his inattentiveness. It only made Balthier smile all the more.

'They'd have to catch me first.' He murmured in aside to his partner.

'So you would fly still, while building a nest in Archades' high arches?' Fran murmured shifting her weight from one foot to the other and only Balthier could tell she was as impatient with the geriatric windbag senator as he was.

'I enjoy the irony,' Balthier agreed mildly.

His eyes narrowed as it seemed the oration was finally winding down. The old man paused to draw in a breath within the hollows of his thin chest. Balthier leaped forward, seizing his moment.

'Oh well done,' he clapped wholeheartedly, 'well said that man.'

The senator and everyone else gathered to stare and look ineffectual, turned to blink at him in surprise, not that Balthier minded this. No one knew how to make the most of an audience like he did. Fran stepped up to his side silently and easily. Balthier strode forward to seize the reins of this grand farce.

'Well then, gentleman, ladies, iron clad harbingers of doom,' he nodded ironically to the Judge Imposter, 'shall we get started then?'

He strode forward towards the entrance to the sixty-seventh floor without waiting for an answer – because he didn't care what anyone thought one way or the other. He also ignored the outraged flush mottling the old senator's greyish pallor as he passed him.

No one else seemed to mind the interruption however and quite swiftly the little crowd was hurrying in his and Fran's wake. One particularly eager young man in a Draklor researcher's tunic managed to stretch his legs to trot alongside Balthier.

'Start with what, sir?' He asked holding a quill pen and pad poised in his hands to take notes and his scampered along.

Balthier grinned. 'Buggered if I know,' he admitted honestly. 'But I dare say I shall enjoy doing it, whatever the "it" ends up being.'

The young researcher dropped back, somewhat confounded by that answer. Balthier and Fran swept forward. Balthier knew where he needed to go: the storage chambers on the fifty-fifth floor.

In short order he had one of the storage hangars opened up (he didn't need to wait to be granted use of the official key card). He stepped into the hangar and the crystal lights automatically cast illumination down upon the veritable treasures revealed within.

No man had ever been so happy to see so many dust sheets, of this there could be no doubt. Balthier's grin was wide enough to climb right off his face. Fran eyed him with obvious amusement.

'It is good to be alive, is it not Balthier?' She asked him dryly.

'It is today, dear Fran. It is today.'

Balthier beamed at her; a smile both boyish in its bright enthusiasm and worrisome in its gleeful promise. Fran was momentarily taken aback; it had been years since she had seen that look upon his face.

This was it, a little euphoric voice was shouting in Balthier's mind as he cast an artisan's eye over the stockpiles of hume invention laid before him. This is flying; not the literal kind granted, but flying of the soul, all the same. We are home; the voice cried. We are doing what we were born to do. Just think of what we can do with all this.

Think of the dreams we can give form to; think of the airships we can make, said the voice of Ffamran in his mind. Balthier surged forward, clasping dust sheets and ripping them away from hidden delights of engineering.

The soul in ascendant and the dead given their dues, this was Balthier's true resurrection. This was his reward. This was tomorrow, come in all her glory, and yesterday could finally be at rest, nothing more than a bittersweet memento hidden in a deep pocket.

When Balthier, without thinking, reached for, and twinned his fingers with Fran's, she did not break his grip. She did not even think to, and instead squeezed back.

'Come Fran,' Balthier grinned. 'We have wonders to create!'

Legends to wonders to simple man and woman; it was time to start a whole new chapter in a different sort of adventure. Hand in hand the partners in sky, in life, and perhaps, one day, in death as well, walked forward to make of their lives something wonderful.

* * *

_13__th__ October 2008 to 12__th__ October 2009: And thus the curtain falls and the stage fades to black, but where one story ends others wait to begin. _

_To everyone who has read this story thank you, and I can only hope you have enjoyed reading what I have written here. _

_Spikey44_


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